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In terms of carelessness, Kyojuro will admit that this mission ranks concerningly high.
The demon is disintegrating on the forest floor, soon to be nothing more than a touch of ash for the wind to disperse. But if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that Blood Demon Arts can be tricky things—persisting even after a demon has died, only becoming undone by the sun. And judging by the position of the moon, the sun is quite some time away. Four hours, Kyojuro thinks. Five, if he’s unlucky.
Wincing, Kyojuro leans against the trunk of a tree, bracing his weight against his sword. The demon’s claws had torn through his haori and uniform at his shoulder. It’s too dark for Kyojuro to make out the severity of the wound, but from the way it throbs too-hot, he has a creeping concern that he might have been poisoned.
He steadies his breathing, focusing on the area of the wound. If it’s poison, then he needs to slow his heartbeat; ensure that it doesn’t spread. Best if he binds the area to slow the circulation as well.
Shrugging off the haori is easy enough, but the uniform and undershirt are beginning to stick to his skin with blood from the wound. Nonetheless, Kyojuro shrugs it off, tears a strip from the shirt, and starts to bind around his shoulder as tight as possible.
He can see the faint scrawl of capillaries underneath his skin, darkened unnaturally around the wound. Total Concentration Breathing slows the poison, but not nearly enough. Especially not as his concentration wanes, his vision tunnelling as pain and lightheadedness flood over him in roiling waves.
The village Kyojuro had been staying at is another half-hour’s walk away from here, and Kyojuro isn’t sure if it’s a good idea to attempt to make his way there. The more he moves, the more the poison will spread, and he isn’t entirely certain the doctor will be up for treating something caused by a Blood Demon Art.
There’s no telling what sort of toxin it is either. For now, it doesn’t seem to have spread far from the wound. If he keeps his breathing steady and circulation slow, perhaps waiting it out for sunrise would be the best idea.
Kyojuro leans back down against the tree, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword. He breathes in—slower than usual, as shallow as he can afford. Out. The injury feels like fire licking at flesh, fierce and unrelenting. The leaves overtop rustle. The wind is cool, almost soothing.
A branch cracks, loud and sudden and deliberate.
Kyojuro opens his eyes to meet Akaza’s.
He stands a few paces away, his body languid and relaxed, but still dangerous. Golden eyes bore into Kyojuro. He can see the way Akaza appraises him because the neutral expression soon slips into displeasure as his eyes narrow and the corner of his lips tug down.
“You were careless, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. Half a taunt, though something darker colors the edges of his voice. Possessiveness, perhaps. He doesn’t like it when other demons hurt Kyojuro, but has less qualms leaving Kyojuro battered and bruised after a spar. You’re mine to kill, Akaza had told him, all those months ago. Although if Kyojuro were to think about it, the days where Akaza used to injure him during spars seem to be quite some time ago.
Slow breath in. Slower breath out.
“I know,” Kyojuro replies lowly. He grits his teeth. Akaza’s presence isn’t exactly a surprise, but being found in such a vulnerable state puts Kyojuro on edge. He can barely afford to pick up his sword if he wants to stay the poison until sunrise. Despite their countless meetings, Akaza is still enough of a wildcard that his presence strikes instinctive wariness in Kyojuro, even if Kyojuro has gotten familiar enough around Akaza that he scarcely concerns himself with watching his back anymore.
Another branch snaps under Akaza’s steps as he moves closer. “Was the demon that strong?” he asks. “You aren’t bleeding that much, Kyojuro, to be this incapacitated.”
Kyojuro tracks the demon’s movements with his eyes, but he doesn’t respond or move more. His shoulder burns.
Akaza stops in front of him and sits back on his haunches so that he and Kyojuro are at eye level.
“Poison,” Kyojuro finally tells him, feeling a bit faint. “Blood Demon Art. I need to wait for the sun.”
The faint smile drops off of Akaza’s face at what is quite frankly an astonishing speed. His eyes narrow into slits.
“You were poisoned?” he says, surprisingly toneless.
Shifting just enough to reveal his injured shoulder, Kyojuro makes a noise of affirmation.
He’s not sure what he’s to do now. If Akaza were any other demon, he probably would’ve finished Kyojuro off then and there and eaten him. Except Kyojuro now knows that Akaza detests unfair fights and unearned victories. One of Upper Moon Three’s many contradictions, Kyojuro supposes, especially now that the expression that flashes across Akaza’s face is a mix between fury and… and what? He blinks once, vision blurring. The blackened capillaries around the cut have begun to spread despite his best efforts to slow it. Kyojuro sucks in another sharp breath, trying to sustain Total Concentration.
Akaza curses softly under his breath. Without another word, he’s tugging Kyojuro’s uniform lower to reveal the entirety of the wound.
Cold air hits his skin, which feels like it is burning hotter than before. Well. Kyojuro isn’t certain he’ll last until sunrise, at this rate. His mind feels too foggy to put together implication and consequence.
It’s quite a funny thought. If he dies, the last person—demon?—Kyojuro would have had for company would be Upper Moon Three, who is currently staring down at his wounds with something rather akin to panic in his eyes. Or maybe Kyojuro is beginning to imagine things as well, and making up what he wants to see.
“Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “Did the demon hurt you anywhere else?”
Kyojuro shakes his head. “Just here.”
Akaza shifts closer, knees bumping against Kyojuro’s. Fingers brush over the area of the injury, and Kyojuro shivers at the feeling of Akaza’s cold touch over feverish skin. It eases the burn slightly, but not enough to provide proper reprieve.
“I need to get the poison out of you,” Akaza says. His voice sounds more faraway than before, which makes very little sense because he’s only come closer to Kyojuro.
“How?” Kyojuro asks. He almost laughs before remembering that he definitely shouldn’t attempt that. “By trying to punch me through the stomach again?”
Akaza clearly does not find that funny because he neither laughs nor replies. “Give me your sword, Kyojuro.”
He’s not sure how his sword is supposed to help with the poison. As it is, Kyojuro had forgotten he was holding it in the first place. It had helped to hold onto something, but now he’s gripped the scabbard so tight that he isn’t certain his fingers know how to loosen anymore.
One way or another, Akaza maneuvers the sword out of Kyojuro’s hands. He holds it awfully—wrapping his fingers around the middle of the blade instead of even trying to hold the hilt. Kyojuro has never seen anybody do worse than Akaza, mostly because he had always assumed it was intuitive to not grip a weapon by the sharp part.
“You should not hold a sword like that!” Kyojuro tells him.
Akaza shushes him like one would a child. “Don’t move, Kyojuro,” he says.
Before he can fully register what is happening, there’s a sharp but clean sting of pain over his shoulder again. The wound pulses even hotter, and Kyojuro feels his breathing stutter on reflex. He hisses, head falling back against the tree trunk he had been resting against.
“What are you doing?” he asks, trying to look down.
By the time the question leaves his mouth, Akaza has already cast his sword to the side. A head full of pink hair obscures Kyojuro’s line of vision. Before Kyojuro can repeat his question, the wound sings with rekindled pain, like red hot iron. It takes his mind far too long to put together what had happened. Akaza has sunken his sharp fangs into the bloodiest area. His body jerks on reflex, a trained instinct of a prey against its predator. Kyojuro’s arms move on their own, about to pry Akaza off of him, but Akaza is quicker. A second later, Kyojuro’s wrists are being held by a grasp too strong to fight, and the weight of Akaza’s body settles over his legs. He rears back just enough to snap, “Stay still, Kyojuro,” before his fangs pierce Kyojuro’s flesh again.
Oh. So that’s what Akaza meant when he said he was going to get the poison out.
Akaza’s mouth is wet and uncomfortably warm against Kyojuro’s already scorching skin, which is strange, because his hands are always so cold. Speaking of which, the fingers wrapped around Kyojuro’s wrists in a vice grip are rather cool, a jarring antithesis to the way his body feels aflame from fever and pain. Kyojuro can feel the faint pressure of his blood being taken. It hurts, but his mind has spiralled into some maddening state of delirium, because all he can think of is how often he’d traced the curve of Akaza’s fangs these days, and wondered what it would feel like breaking skin, piercing flesh. The pain is all from the poison, but had it not been for it…
It feels like an eternity before Akaza sits back. Kyojuro’s chest spasms for air as he attempts to maintain Total Concentration Breathing, vision hazing and head spinning in the worst way possible. Crimson smears messily over Akaza’s mouth, and oh, how many times had Kyojuro seen that sight: a demon with its teeth buried deep in a victim’s throat, looking up at him with blood all over its face? Akaza leans over him like any demon does over its prey, but the expression on his face isn’t hungry as much as it is—concerned.
“Most of the poison should be gone,” Akaza says, brows furrowing. “Kyojuro, can you hear me?”
Kyojuro makes an attempt to nod. The simple action sends his head spinning like a bird shot out of the sky in mid-flight. His head lolls back against the tree trunk again as his vision blackens.
“Kyojuro?” Panic, now. Akaza’s eyes are wide, stricken, and it is so unbearably human. Upper Moon Three, who scorns humanity in every breath, who mocks emotion and tramples on sentiment, is currently looking at Kyojuro with something akin to fear. But oh—this isn’t entirely new either, is it? These few months, Akaza’s sharp distaste has tempered, until scarcely seems to mean his scorn when he argues with Kyojuro.
Now, something about that expression tugs at Kyojuro’s chest, like the poison has rendered the flesh of his heart too-tender. Ever since Akaza had first started following him around after injuring him at the site of the Mugen Train, Kyojuro had sworn to himself that he would stand firm. Upper Moon Three was, at best, a thorn in his side. Although Kyojuro was not strong enough to kill Akaza, he could mediate the damage; he could bide his time and wait. Surely, there would come a day when he could land that killing blow, or die trying.
Days turned into weeks, which turned into months. Spars that used to leave Kyojuro bruised and bloodied now yielded to pulled punches and the flat of his blade. They stand at a strange middleground, one more dangerous than the initial enmity. Kyojuro reminds himself every morning he wakes, every passing moment he softens in Akaza’s company: I cannot falter.
He’s faltering now, staring up at Akaza’s features through blurred vision. He’s faltering now, skin smarting where Akaza grips him. He’s faltering now, wishing and wishing and wishing that somehow, miraculously, impossibly, that this glimpse of Akaza’s humanity, the closest Kyojuro has gotten yet, is only the first of many.
Ah, Kyojuro thinks, he really must be losing it. His tongue feels too thick in his mouth and forcing the words past his throat now feels like he’s rubbing it raw with sandpaper, but he tries for Akaza’s sake anyway. If only to ease away the furrow between Akaza’s brow. “I’ll be alright.”
“You—” Akaza breaks off. The distress on his face does not dissipate. “I don’t understand. I got most of the poison out, but you’re still—you’re still—fuck. Kyojuro. Kyojuro!”
Kyojuro hadn’t even realized it, but his eyes had slipped shut. “I’m not asleep,” he reassures Akaza. “It’s just…” The rest of the sentence evades him. He can’t quite remember what he wanted to say.
“Fuck,” Akaza repeats. He might be shaking. “I’m going to—I’m taking you back to the inn, Kyojuro. I need to get your temperature down. You’re too hot.”
Before Kyojuro can say anything, he’s being lifted, one of Akaza’s arms around his shoulders and the other around the back of his thighs. The shift in position is so sudden to his spinning head that it nearly gives him vertigo. Some half-pained gasp of breath escapes his lips, and Akaza freezes at the sound.
“I’m okay,” Kyojuro rasps out.
The trip back to the inn is fragmented. For the most part, all he can recall is the canopy of lush summer trees above his head, the moon flashing in and out in broken pieces. Akaza is silent, and Kyojuro cannot focus on Akaza’s face to read his expression.
He must have shut his eyes again, because in one moment they are on the outskirts of the town, and in the next, Akaza is easing him out of his arms and Kyojuro is being set down on the much more comfortable bedding of a futon. The face that leans over him is Akaza’s, but gone are the demonic markings and broken-glass eyes. Instead, Akaza has slipped into his human disguise. Black hair, brown irises, fair skin. He’s still pale, like someone who hasn’t seen the sun in ages, but it isn’t quite the same corpsely pallor as his demon appearance. Kyojuro’s heart stumbles with a violent intensity in his chest.
Human. Is this what Akaza had once looked like? Once upon a time, hundreds of years ago, before Kibutsuji’s blood had corrupted him and turned him into a monster? Before he had spilled the blood and robbed the lives of hundreds, thousands, before…
A voice sounds from behind Akaza. Kyojuro spots the weathered face of the innkeeper, who has brought a basin of water over. He sets it down next to the bedside, exchanges a few unintelligible sentences with Akaza, and then disappears out of the door.
The edges of his vision blur. Breathing feels as though there is an invisible weight strung to his lungs, and each heave of breath only makes it press down harder. With a strangled gasp for air, Kyojuro shoves the blankets off of his body. He is unbearably hot.
Akaza moves faster than Kyojuro’s eye can catch, tugging the blankets back over him. “You’re running a high fever,” he says sharply. “You need to sweat it off, Kyojuro.”
Kyojuro sinks back into the pillows, energy spent. He feels untethered from his body, as though his thoughts are detaching one by one from his mind, even the ones he’s kept hidden inside the deepest crevices, even the desires he doesn’t want to shine light onto. The poison has rendered his body vulnerable, his tongue loose, his heart traitorous.
In the pulsing periphery of his vision, he sees Akaza wring a washcloth over the basin. He sets it over Kyojuro’s forehead, the cool wetness sending a shiver up Kyojuro’s feverish body. Then he adjusts the blankets so that Kyojuro’s wounded shoulder is exposed. His uniform has been shredded by the demon’s claws. Kyojuro will have to file for a replacement when this poison-induced haze passes.
“I’m taking your uniform off,” Akaza announces. His voice sounds rather far away, like Kyojuro is trapped in a glass jar and Akaza is speaking to him from outside. He mumbles something back, perhaps an agreement. Kyojuro is too far gone to know what he said.
Akaza undoes the rest of the uniform buttons. Kyojuro’s body is lifted, adjusted, before his uniform is tugged off. The most striking sensation he remembers is the roaring tide of pain when his injured shoulder is jolted just-so, but it fades into a dull ache when Akaza lays his body back down on the futon. His hands are inexplicably gentle in a way that doesn’t quite make sense. Kyojuro is accustomed to the way Akaza punches hard and unforgiving when they spar, the danger lurking beneath the tips of his fingers. He’s far less used to… this.
Akaza has gone silent, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. It takes Kyojuro far too long to realize what Akaza is looking at: his shoulder wound.
“What’s wrong?” Kyojuro croaks. Then, since the thought is funny, he says, “Are you going to bite me again?”
Undiluted shock flashes across Akaza’s face, enough that his human disguise seems to falter as gold peeks out behind the brown of his eyes, faint lines of his markings seeping into his skin. He composes himself a few seconds later. “Why, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, flashing his fangs in a sharp smile. “Did you like it?”
Far too frazzled to put words to consequence, Kyojuro considers the question for a moment. “It hurt because of the poison,” he muses. “Maybe it would be better without!”
“Yeah?” Akaza echoes. He turns away, rummaging through something before coming back holding a roll of gauze. A laugh tears out of his throat, but this one is coloured dark, not at all amused. “Do you even know what you’re saying, Kyojuro? Or is it the fever talking?”
Kyojuro doesn’t know how to answer that one, so he ends up remaining silent. Akaza begins to bind the gashes around his shoulder. Every brush of his cool skin against Kyojuro’s is a heavenly reprieve. He’s burning hotter than a furnace; surely, any warmer and Kyojuro is afraid that he’s going to catch on fire. Then he catches Akaza’s gaze and Kyojuro forgets entirely what he was thinking in the first place.
Like this, reality feels frightfully blurred. Akaza may be wearing a mask of a human, but he is every bit the same demon who had nearly taken Kyojuro’s life at the wreck of the Mugen Train. Still, he looks so—normal right at this moment. Pretty, even, with his long lashes and wide eyes and lips pursed in undivided concentration. Had Kyojuro passed by him on a street, during a mission, he may have looked twice. Asked him to share a meal, perhaps.
“Akaza,” he says. The shape of Akaza’s name is familiar on his lips; too familiar. It is the name Kyojuro has called out the most in the past few months, and Akaza is also the one who calls him by his name when nobody else does. To Akaza, he is Kyojuro, not Rengoku. Since when had Akaza turned from a burden to bear to a secret Kyojuro wanted to keep? As if Kyojuro could keep him, Upper Moon Three, with his violence and unpredictable nature and his frighteningly human glimpses.
Delirious, pointless musings. Kyojuro shifts in the sheets, wanting to find a cooler spot beyond the stifling heat of the blankets. In response, Akaza takes the cloth from his forehead and dips it into the water again.
Time bleeds and blurs. Kyojuro must have fallen into fitful sleep at some point, but he awakens a little while later to see Akaza still sitting faithful vigil beside him. He mumbles something deliriously about teeth and poison and demons. Akaza’s eyes widen first, then narrow into slits. “Go back to sleep, Kyojuro,” he says rather shortly.
“Are you upset at me?” Kyojuro asks, sensing the displeasure.
“Go back to sleep, Kyojuro.”
“No, tell me,” Kyojuro presses. “Are you upset at me?”
“Will you go back to sleep if I say yes?”
“Why?”
Akaza’s eyes are stormy. He refuses to meet Kyojuro’s gaze. “Because you’re fucking careless, Kyojuro,” he spits. “I told you. If you’re going to die to any demon, I won’t allow it to be anybody else but me.”
Do you think I can choose my death, Akaza? Kyojuro wants to ask. If I could, then I suppose dying to you wouldn’t be the worst way to die.
The only thing that makes it out is a faint shake of his head and the beginnings of Akaza’s name before his eyelids are too heavy to keep open and oblivion envelops him once more.
Lucidity slips through Kyojuro’s fingertips for the rest of the night. If he had awoken again and spoken to Akaza, he recalls none of it. His memories of consciousness are in disjointed flashes: Akaza changing the cloth on his forehead, twisting and turning in the heat of the blankets and trying to find some reprieve.
When Kyojuro wakes fully, his body is heavier than lead, but the worst of the fever seems to have passed him.
His hair is matted to his skin from sweat, and there is an invisible weight to all of his limbs. His tongue feels withered dry in his mouth. Every shift of movement makes pain flare up from Kyojuro’s shoulder wound.
Groaning, he rolls over, immediately pinned by Akaza’s gaze. His eyes roam over Kyojuro, narrowed for a few moments before the tense line of his shoulders relax ever so slightly.
“You’re better,” he says. The words are terse.
“I…” Kyojuro glances to his side. The curtains are pulled tightly over the window, but from behind the cloth, he sees the glimmer of golden rays. The sun has come up. Shocked, he turns back to Akaza. Akaza has never stayed behind after the sun had risen. Kyojuro knew—he didn’t like being trapped in an inn room with nowhere to go. And if Kyojuro wished, it would be easier than ever to kill Akaza, mere meters from the reach of daylight.
“You stayed,” he says at last.
Akaza still looks displeased. He reaches beside him and produces a cup. “Drink, Kyojuro,” he says.
Wincing at the soreness, Kyojuro pushes himself into an upright position. The movement makes his head spin and his vision blackens for a moment, but he can tell he’s in a far better shape than a few hours ago. He accepts the cup from Akaza. The water is cool and soothing against his parched throat.
They sit in silence when Kyojuro finishes it all. The bandages around Kyojuro’s shoulder are beginning to come undone; no doubt all of his tossing and turning during the night had unravelled Akaza’s work.
The entire night…
Kyojuro lifts his eyes to meet Akaza’s again. And then it strikes him that it’s not displeasure on Akaza’s face as much as it is conflict.
Funny. Kyojuro had spent the first two months around him thinking that Akaza was trying to manipulate him, but he’s learned that if there is one thing that defines Akaza, it is his paradoxical sincerity. He wears his heart on his sleeve like a child, and he can’t quite hide his emotions even if he wants to. Saving Kyojuro from the poison, taking care of him all night, and staying beyond safety despite the sun… it goes against everything a demon is. Perhaps Akaza knows that, too: that this middleground they’re both toeing is giving away, and every bit of humanity he allows himself to act upon chisels away at the grip Kibutsuji has on him.
“Thank you, Akaza,” Kyojuro says. “For saving me. And for taking care of me!”
He expects Akaza to say something along the lines of, I won’t allow you to die to another demon, or I’m the only one who can kill you, but instead, he remains silent for a couple of unbearably long seconds.
Kyojuro frowns. “Is everything okay?”
“Do you remember anything, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks. “Anything you said?”
Kyojuro thinks back. He can’t particularly recall himself saying anything that would elicit this sort of action, for Akaza to look so torn. So he shakes his head. “Did I say something to upset you!”
“Upset me?” Akaza echoes. He laughs. It’s all mirthless, sharp and almost mocking. “I am a demon, Kyojuro. Upper Moon Three. You seem to be very keen on forgetting that.”
“I don’t understand what you are talking about!”
“Do you think I saved you because I cared about you?” Akaza asks. “Because—because I am becoming more human? Is that what you want, Kyojuro?”
Kyojuro falters. There is the roughness of anger building behind Akaza’s silk-and-honey tone, but the resentment doesn’t feel genuine. Like Akaza is trying to convince himself of something he no longer believes in either, as if maintaining this fragile pretense will make the truth any less real.
“Akaza,” he starts, but before the last syllable leaves his mouth, Akaza is already crowding into his space, slotting his body over Kyojuro’s and leaning in too-close. The hazelnut brown of his eyes melts away into gold, harsh strokes of kanji covering the expanse of his irises. His demon markings ink back into his skin, and when he smiles at Kyojuro, he bares his fangs like a threat.
Kyojuro’s pulse races above the clouds, heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage. He sees the way Akaza stares at him intently, looking for a reaction.
“See, Kyojuro?” he breathes. “You’re still afraid.”
“That you’ll kill me?” Kyojuro shoots back. His father once told him that his stubbornness would be the death of him one day. Somehow, he is struck by the sudden realization that he no longer needs to fear that his life will end by Akaza’s hands. “After you spent the whole night trying to save my life?”
“You’re looking for hope where there is none,” Akaza says. “Blind optimism, Kyojuro.”
“It’s not blind.” And it’s not, with Akaza so unbearably close. Does he know that Kyojuro’s pulse stumbles not from fear but from this aching want? Maybe he does, but perhaps Akaza is the one who is afraid. Of the truth and what acknowledging it would mean. “And you have changed, Akaza, even if you—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Even if you don’t want to admit it,” Kyojuro finishes despite Akaza’s warning. “You still can’t pretend it hasn’t happened.”
“I could kill you right now, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, but his voice wavers. His eyes flicker down quickly, once, before dragging back up to meet Kyojuro’s gaze.
There is scarcely any space between them; if Kyojuro moves even an inch, he would be able to close the distance. The avenue for violence is as open as ever. Akaza could do it: tear out his threat, sink his fist into Kyojuro’s chest. He could take whatever he wanted, and Kyojuro knows he would not be able to stop Akaza even if he tried. His sword is halfway across the room, and as it is, Kyojuro’s body is in no state to fight with the poison’s damage lingering in his system.
“You don’t want to kill me,” Kyojuro says.
Akaza’s exhale passes through his lips, shaky. Kyojuro should be the one to step back. To redefine the blurring lines. But oh, he is already compromised, with his heartbeat a pounding war drum in his ears, with how his chest squeezes at the way Akaza is leaning over him so close like a lover would. Perhaps he has long been compromised, and it’s only now that Kyojuro is realizing how far he’s strayed.
And for all of Akaza’s pushing, for all his infuriating inability to respect personal space, he does not close the distance. It’s almost ironic, that for all Akaza speaks of taking, he always refuses to take what he wants without being given explicit permission. Just like he had begged Kyojuro to become a demon, yet refused to turn him without Kyojuro’s consent. Sometimes, when his inhibitions are frightfully low, Kyojuro wants to ask him, Have you ever been given the choice, Akaza?
His inhibitions are low now. Be it the fever, having burned any of his reservations, or simply Akaza’s proximity—Kyojuro cannot stand it for a second longer. And he’s taking a step forward instead of back, letting himself plummet: closing this infinitesimal distance, tangling his fingers in the silky strands of Akaza’s hair at the base of his neck.
Kyojuro feels Akaza stiffen for the briefest moment before he’s pressing against Kyojuro, as if trying to meld their bodies together. His skin is cool against Kyojuro’s bare chest; colder than a human’s should be, a fact that should throw Kyojuro off, except all he can do is bring himself closer.
Any hesitance that had been present in the first few moments thaws. Akaza kisses him back like he’s starving, overwhelming and dizzying, wrenching any remaining slivers of control from Kyojuro. He’s pressed against the cushion of the futon as Akaza crawls over him properly, the weight of his body pinning Kyojuro down.
How many times had Kyojuro imagined this, before he locked those desires away? Between spars, when Akaza would always lean in closer than necessary. When he followed Kyojuro back into inn rooms, all gleaming eyes and sharp smiles. And perhaps how many times isn’t the right question to ask, but rather, how long Kyojuro has been wanting this, against all better judgement.
His breath escapes in pants when Akaza pulls back, eyes glued to Kyojuro’s face. He doesn’t go far, near enough that their lips brush when Akaza speaks. “Do you know what you asked me last night, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks.
All his memories are no more than fever-hazes, like trying to peer through frosted glass. “What?” Kyojuro asks.
“You asked me if it would hurt if I bit you again,” Akaza says. “You must’ve been really delirious, Kyojuro. Of course it would hurt, anyone can tell. Unless that’s what you wanted, Kyojuro.” He smiles, and Kyojuro drags his gaze down to the sharp curve of Akaza’s incisors.
“Maybe I was just curious,” Kyojuro says. His voice escapes breathless, unsteady.
“Not a good curiosity for a Hashira to satiate,” Akaza says. He’s right, that this is quite a morbid curiosity, one that defies all training and any logical sense of self-preservation. Before Kyojuro can respond, he’s being kissed again, this time with the pressure of Akaza’s fangs bearing into his bottom lip, just enough that skin splits.
There is a sharp sting before the taste of iron hits Kyojuro’s tongue. A hand presses against the base of his throat, the tips of Akaza’s fingers mapped against his carotid as he tilts Kyojuro’s jaw up. What his body would have once categorized as danger only sends a thrill up Kyojuro’s spine, some sick mix of pleasure and adrenaline. He must be so far gone, with Upper Moon Three’s hand pressed around his throat and the tang of his own blood in his mouth, yet feeling nothing but the swimming rush of desire cloud his mind. In a desperate attempt to ground himself, Kyojuro winds his fingers into the sheets, but any success is offset when the hand at his throat exerts a bit more pressure.
“Still curious, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, pulling back and allowing Kyojuro to draw a ragged gasp of breath. His lips are red like the cherries Kyojuro had seen in the market stalls the day before. Deep, rich crimson, painting Akaza’s face so prettily. If he sees them again today, he should purchase some. “Or did that hurt enough for you?”
“Barely,” he replies.
“Hah,” Akaza huffs, a shaky laugh. Kyojuro feels every small tremble of his body. “You never struck me as a masochist,” he says. “Do the other Hashira know this about you, Kyojuro? That you’re begging a demon to bite you?”
“Just you,” Kyojuro says. He feels intoxicated, too unmoored to consider the consequences of such confessions. Maybe the fever hasn’t quite run its course, because he’s burning even with Akaza’s cold skin pressed against his. “Akaza.”
Like the sound of his name snaps a trembling string stretched taut, Akaza surges forward again. He’s even less reserved this time, teeth bearing down enough to piece into tender flesh. The pain throbs deeper than before, but when the pressure lifts, the lingering ache edges on pleasant. Akaza’s lips are wet against his, some mess of blood and spit that should disgust Kyojuro, except the only thing he feels is this electric warmth that has travelled down every nerve of his body. It curls at the pit of his stomach, a desire that Kyojuro can no longer pretend isn’t there.
Akaza’s lips map lower, along Kyojuro’s jaw and over his jugular. The realization of what Akaza could so easily do—but doesn’t—sends a thrill through him. His pulse stutters, each beat of his heart sending a rush of heady heat that makes Kyojuro lightheaded with want.
Kyojuro thinks they could have stayed like this forever and he would have been content with it, but the spell breaks when Akaza shifts their position and the sudden weight against his injured shoulder makes him hiss in genuine pain. Immediately, Akaza recoils backwards, his features contorting into a look of concern that Kyojuro has gotten quite familiar with in the past night.
“Did I hurt you, Kyojuro?” he asks. Ironic, when Kyojuro’s lips are wet with his own blood and Akaza’s chin is smeared with it. His eyes are blown wide; he looks just as unravelled as Kyojuro feels. At least Kyojuro is not the only one who feels like he’s been ripped from shore.
“Just my shoulder wound,” Kyojuro rasps, still dizzy. All he can taste is copper in his mouth. “It’s fine, we—”
“Let me bind it,” Akaza says.
The weight of his body shifts as he climbs off Kyojuro. There is still a roll of gauze on the ground next to them, which Akaza picks up. He drags the back of his hand over his bloody chin, only succeeding in smudging red over his jaw.
Kyojuro still feels like he’s been detached from his body, mind reeling from what just happened. It’s too soon for him to put together the future implications of what he’s done, but as it is, there’s a much more immediate problem: Akaza’s sudden and almost sullen withdrawal.
“Sit up, Kyojuro,” he directs. “I can’t do it properly like this.”
Kyojuro pushes himself upright. Akaza won’t meet his eyes, playing it off as directing his concentration elsewhere as he undoes the remnants of the bandaging from last night.
The air feels several degrees cooler now that Akaza isn’t skin-to-skin with him, which is a little ridiculous because Akaza had run cold, not hot. Kyojuro runs his tongue over the seam of his mouth, feeling the puncture wounds, still slowly bleeding. At his side, Akaza has unraveled all of the old gauze, exposing Kyojuro’s shoulder wound.
Considering the injuries Kyojuro has sustained in his time of being a slayer, this isn’t particularly horrible—it just looks messy with the gashes and the vertical line Akaza had cut in order to better access the poison. There are no signs of infection, and Akaza must have cleaned it last night before wrapping it, because there’s also no blood crusted around the injuries.
“Stretch out your arm,” Akaza says.
Kyojuro does as he asks. He watches Akaza’s methodic movements, the skill and surety indicative of practice. Kyojuro had been trained in basic first aid, but even he wasn’t as good as Akaza. Upper Moon Three, a demon for centuries… and here he was, wrapping Kyojuro’s injuries for him after he spent the entire night taking care of him. It’s another piece of information Kyojuro carefully stores away. Whatever monstrous visage that initially represented Akaza in his mind has been stripped bare over the past couple of months, each human glimpse creating something new altogether. Now, he looks at the demon in front of him, and Kyojuro’s heart aches with undeniable affection. This past night has been the final stone before the scale spills over the other way, and Kyojuro is helpless against his own hope.
“What’s wrong, Akaza?” he asks.
Akaza ties the gauze down. “You’re still sick and injured, Kyojuro.” He looks up at Kyojuro through his lashes, baring his teeth into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What, were you expecting me go on and fuck you while you’re in this sorry state?”
Kyojuro falters for a moment before steeling his spine. He’s well-acquainted with the way Akaza lashes out and says things he doesn’t mean when he’s upset.
“I don’t think that is what’s really wrong!”
“So enlighten me, Kyojuro.”
“I don’t know,” Kyojuro admits. “I… if you didn’t want me to kiss you, I apologize! But—”
“Do you want me, Kyojuro?” Akaza cuts in.
Kyojuro blinks at him, taken aback by the question. Before he can respond, Akaza continues, “You made up some version of me you made up in your head, Kyojuro.” Resentment splinters in his voice, Akaza’s hands curling into fists at his side. “You deceive yourself into thinking that somehow, I’ve become more human. That’s who you want. Not me.”
“That’s not true!” Kyojuro argues back. “But why are you so determined to deny these parts of yourself, Akaza?”
“Because you’re wrong, Kyojuro,” Akaza snaps. “I’m not some misguided soul you can fix with enough optimism. I’m a fucking demon. I’ve killed thousands of people, but you seem very keen on forgetting that.”
“I’ve never forgotten! But you haven’t killed anybody in months.”
“Because you won’t let me.”
“Since when do demons care about what a Hashira would ask of them?” Kyojuro presses. “If you really wanted to, there isn’t much I could do to stop you. We both know that!”
“So what?” Akaza bites back. “That’s your evidence, Kyojuro? That we made a deal and I haven’t killed anyone for some time? And somehow that changes anything?” He laughs. “All you’re doing is making yourself look stupid.”
Kyojuro takes a deep breath. For all of his scorn and lashing out, Kyojuro has a feeling that the person Akaza is most furious with is himself.
“What’s wrong with being a little more human, Akaza?” he asks.
Akaza’s downcast eyes lift to meet his, narrowed in disbelief and incredulity. He opens his mouth, but Kyojuro beats him to it. “You can’t go back and undo the things you’ve already done even if you want to, Akaza,” he says. “I know you have hurt and killed people. I know that can’t be undone. But you also saved me last night. That’s also something you cannot undo. You’ve changed, Akaza, whether or not you would like to admit it!”
There is a long pause of silence, so quiet that it feels loud. “I don’t want to be human,” Akaza says at last, but the hollows of defeat edge on his voice. He sounds almost as if he doesn’t believe what he’s saying. “I won’t ever be so fucking—weak. I won’t go back.”
Kyojuro looks at him, the storm behind golden eyes, the clenched jaw, and it suddenly occurs to him that whatever it is about his human life that Akaza loathes so much, he does not remember either. Is it anger, is it grief? Is it love? Whatever happened has been locked away from conscious memory, but the subconscious still influences everything Akaza does. And what is anger and grief, if not remnants of love?
“Alright,” Kyojuro says, knowing better to keep pushing Akaza. He pulls himself closer, so that his knees bump against Akaza’s. “But for what it’s worth, Akaza, I do want you, just as you are! I mean it sincerely.”
Akaza lifts his gaze again. Like this, with his eyes wide with an almost childish hope, Kyojuro cannot curb the way his heart stumbles over its next pulse with fondness. Akaza is wrong; Kyojuro has never been a blind optimist. But for a moment, he wants to hope blindly, freely, because this is the most human Akaza has ever looked.
It’s insane, really. There is still Kyojuro’s blood smeared over Akaza’s jaw, his irises marked with that damning kanji. And still, Kyojuro stares at him and he no longer sees Upper Moon Three as much as he just sees Akaza.
“We don’t have to do anything you do not want,” he adds. “So if you don’t want to—”
“How can I not, Kyojuro?” Akaza cuts in. His shoulders slump forward, almost hopeless. “How can I—” He shakes his head. “But I’m Upper Moon Three, Kyojuro. I’m going to fucking hurt you. If it’s not today, then tomorrow. We both know that. You want to turn a blind eye to it? Sure, just as long as you don’t forget what’s inevitable.”
Kyojuro reaches over to pick up Akaza’s hands. It’s a little jarring how smooth his palms and fingertips are, while Kyojuro’s own are calloused from hours and hours of gripping his sword. Akaza doesn’t move, but he doesn’t pull away either.
“I don’t think you’ll hurt me again,” Kyojuro says.
“You can’t be certain,” Akaza replies. His voice is taut to the point of trembling. He looks surprisingly small like this, shoulders hunched, head bowed. Such striking, contradicting vulnerability that should be unbefitting of a demon, and yet with all of the things Kyojuro has learned of Akaza over the time they’ve known each other, it somehow makes perfect sense. Glimpses of the human Akaza once was, each fighting to surface in spite of a demon’s nature.
“If we only made choices when we had full certainty, then nothing would ever be done!” Kyojuro says. “I can’t be sure, but I am choosing to trust you regardless. What you do with that trust is out of my hands now.”
Akaza does not reply for the longest time. Kyojuro braces himself for a sharp retort, for Akaza to pull his hands out of Kyojuro’s. This is a dangerous vulnerability to offer to a demon. His throat, bared; his heart, open. For all of his life, Kyojuro has only ever locked away his selfish wants. Now, he feels stripped raw, tender, so easy to bruise.
“This is a horrible idea,” Akaza says at last, looking up at Kyojuro. There is still a slight frown pulling at the corner of his lips, but his eyes have cleared from the previous frustration. “And you’re insane. You know that, right, Kyojuro?”
Kyojuro smiles at him. He is aware there is blood all over his face still and his hair and he must look a mess from the fever running its course, but there is a hope in his chest that is blossoming like a weed until it has run rampant and entirely out of control. “You don’t know that!” he retorts.
Akaza huffs. “Blind optimism,” he repeats, though there is no bite to his tone. Instead, he leans forward, closing the space between them again, at long last.
He kisses Kyojuro slower this time, indulgent and almost sweet. One of his hands comes up to cradle Kyojuro’s face, fingers tangling into Kyojuro’s hair. The wet warmth of Akaza’s tongue brushes over his lips as Akaza laps at the remaining blood, a small moan of satisfaction escaping his throat.
When Akaza pulls back, he doesn’t go far, the heart of his palms still pressed against Kyojuro’s face. “Kyojuro,” he says, and he sounds almost awed, reverent.
Perhaps Kyojuro should be the one looking at Akaza in wonder, because here is Kibutsuji’s Upper Moon Three, kneeling in front of him with Kyojuro’s pulse thrumming under his fingertips, and yet he only holds Kyojuro with unbecoming gentleness. Because Akaza has changed, bit by bit, until the demon in front of him feels just as human as Kyojuro is.
And oh, Kyojuro wishes on every childish thing—shooting stars, paper lanterns, cherry blossoms—that this is only the first step of many. He’ll take the plunge; take the risk. He’s willing to place this bet, blind optimism and all.
His breath escapes unsteady, and Kyojuro is dizzy from Akaza’s proximity, drunk from the ache of a longing finally fulfilled. He might have kissed Akaza again had the demon not sat back.
Kyojuro blinks at him, confused as his thoughts start up from the molasses-like haze. Akaza doesn’t look particularly upset this time around. His eyes flicker down before he meets Kyojuro’s eyes again. “You’re still weak, Kyojuro,” he says. “And injured. You should rest.”
“I don’t think kissing you would make anything worse!” Kyojuro points out.
The look he gets is equal parts exasperated and amused. “Save your energy for another time, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. He pushes himself to his feet. His demon features begin to fade away, until the man standing in front of Kyojuro has dark hair, brown eyes, and fair skin. “There’s a restaurant inside the inn. I’ll see if I can bring you something for breakfast. You need to regain your strength.”
Kyojuro sits back on the futon, feeling stupidly warm. In these recent weeks, Akaza has been accommodating him in the smallest ways; calling off spars when Kyojuro was too exhausted to continue, helped him locate the demons Kyojuro had been hunting. But this—this feels like the most significant step yet, for Akaza to allow such open admittance of care.
“Alright!” Kyojuro agrees. “Although you should probably wash the blood off your chin first! I can still see it, and other people will be able to see it also!”
Akaza blinks, raising his fingers to his jaw and touching it gingerly. The laugh he lets out is surprised, almost boyish. He dips his hand into the basin of water by the bedside and scrubs the rest of the blood off. Then he straightens back to his full height. “I’ll be back later,” he says. “Just rest, Kyojuro.”
Kyojuro nods. “Thank you!”
As Kyojuro expected, Akaza does not respond to the gratitude, but his eyes catch Kyojuro’s one more time before he slips outside the door, his steps far too soundless for a human’s.
Kyojuro sits unmoving on the futon for a long while after Akaza is gone. His heartbeat has slowed to its usual pulse, but he can still reimagine the way it had stumbled against his ribcage, can still map out the press of Akaza’s cool skin in all the places they touched.
Everything feels surreal, like this is some elaborate dream Kyojuro has made up in his mind from the demon’s poison. But as he sits here processing what just happened, he thinks that it’s the sort of disbelief that feels good to come to terms with.
At long last, Kyojuro lies back down on the futon. He finds his gaze drawn to the door like a fly to sugar, waiting for the twist of the knob and Akaza’s familiar features to peek through.
Despite his desire to wait, he must have underestimated his own exhaustion. Akaza had been right after all, because it’s not long after that Kyojuro can no longer keep his eyes open.
Poison, fevers, blood and kisses. The last thing Kyojuro recalls before sleep overtakes him is the door creaking open again, and Akaza’s surprisingly soft voice calling out the beginning of his name. Oblivion claims him before he hears the rest, and Kyojuro finally sinks back into comforting darkness knowing that Akaza will be there when he wakes.