Chapter Text
Golden and assiduous, as a kid, Zenitsu’s eyes always find the sun.
He likes to bathe in its warmth, feel it seethe on his back as he runs to and fro across velvet-green fields in summer’s breath. There is nothing more he loves than the scorching days when he’d help his mother hang the clothes to dry as the sun thrummed on their skin; scintillating like threaded silver.
In the days he finds it difficult to leave his bed, Zenitsu reminds himself of misty mornings, the harmonious chorus of dawn as it soars from horizon’s grasp, and the amalgamation of reds and blazing blues. The thought energizes him, and he races his mother outside to watch the rising sun.
Zenitsu is eleven years old when his family takes him up the mountain to see the setting sun. They take a long, arduous path, slowly but surely ascending in height. His mother is fragile, so they take their time. Zenitsu doesn’t mind. They will get there.
It takes them almost two hours to arrive at the peak, just half an hour before nightfall. Zenitsu’s father and mother sit under a tree, locked in each other’s embrace as Zenitsu runs closer to the front to revel in the pleasant warmth. The twilight is a melody of birds chirping, the wind whispering and leaves rustling. It is a tender sound, and it whole-heartedly envelopes Zenitsu in comfort.
As the sun descends into dusk, Zenitsu hears the soft breathing of his parents as they’re lulled into sleep. He smiles before settling down in between them. In the midst of their familiar breaths and soothing heartbeats, he falls into a quiet slumber.
He is at ease.
In hindsight, he thinks this was the last time he’s truly ever felt such a feeling.
*
When his eyes are open again, Zenitsu sees red, glowing eyes, and sharp fangs.
His mother looms over him, telling him to run as his father lies as a boneless heap on the grass, blood pooling around him like morning dew. There is a hand peeking through his mother’s stomach. Zenitsu’s voice is a ghost against his lips – the scream he wants to let out is crucified to his throat.
The silver moon hangs overhead, resonating brightly to light the dark sky.
The silence of the night leaves Zenitsu numb. His mother’s screams are sharpened like a scathing nail against a clay pot as heartbeats hammer all around him – pounding against his ears like war drums on the horizon.
Zenitsu feels breathless. He tries to scurry out of his position under his mother, but his legs won’t listen to him. Move, dammit! Just this once, if only his body would listen to him!
But he can’t.
And before he knows it, blood splatters all over his face as his mother’s body is kicked away. A dark figure towers over him.
“I was taking a stroll,” the man speaks. His voice scares Zenitsu. The man takes a step forward, Zenitsu scuttles backwards as he trembles in fear. “But I didn’t expect to find a marechi (rare blood).”
Zenitsu whimpers. Tears are welling, gathering in the corner of his eyes. The world is becoming blurry by the second.
“Oh?” The man elegantly falls to one knee and he leans forward to scrutinize him. Zenitsu’s breaths come out quicker – fear is strong in his veins as a drop slides down his cheek.
“Your tears,” he begins as the corner of his lips rise to a smirk, “they’re so beautiful. It makes me think about how such…ephemeral beings could be so incredibly alluring.”
Zenitsu is petrified – every part of his body is frozen. He’s scaredscaredscared—he doesn’t want to be here—why is he here—he just wanted to see the sun; to be included in its glory—whywhywhy—
The man’s hand slowly moves towards him, Zenitsu recoils—move, move as far away as possible! Don’t let him touch you—
He futilely skids backwards but he’s cornered at a tree. Zenitsu is mortified—there’s no escaping, and he doesn’t know what to do.
“Oh, marechi,” the man coons—no, mocks. “Don’t be afraid.” The hand is closing in. He’s scared. It lands on his cheek and the vermillion eyes before him gleam darker than the abyss. Zenitsu suddenly feels so cold—so lost.
“I won’t hurt you.” The man’s heartbeat is almost non-existent. Zenitsu can barely hear it but who are you—why are you lying. “Marechi, you don’t believe me?” He sounds sad—he’s frowning but it’s not sincere; it confuses Zenitsu. The tears continue to fall as the silence around him echoes like a deafening symphony – it hurts to listen.
“That’s okay. Don’t worry for now, alright? Just sleep.” The hand on his cheek leaves a catalytically cold trail as it slides down to his jaw—to his chin—and to his neck. There is no pressure. Zenitsu can feel his own heartbeat ringing in his ears. The fingers splay across his neck. Zenitsu’s mouth opens in a silent scream. The man presses his thumb inwards— he falls into the void—
All Zenitsu remembers is staring at a pair of glistening rubies.
(They were filled with hate—hate at being being eternized under the moon.)
*
The next time he claims his consciousness, Zenitsu’s eyes are heavy and he doesn’t feel like opening them. He feels disoriented—so tired, his limbs feel like lead anchoring his body down.
His breath is raspy, and his lungs are an abandoned desert. Gulping is painful, so he forgoes the endeavour—water—he wants—
Zenitsu suddenly coughs—he bolts up and empties whatever is left in his stomach—acid, bile and saliva. He retches until his lungs are on fire, ablaze with the hurt, despair, painpainpain—
He opens his eyes.
The light rushes in, and his head throbs. He winces — groaning at the sudden strike of stinging in his head. He falls back down to the futon he never realized he was lying on. Everything hurt—his body and mind, encompassed by paranoia, agony, dismay—
He sniffs. Tears won’t come out. His body can’t seem to lose anymore.
Zenitsu doesn’t know what he’s doing, nothing made sense, and he whimpers as he accepts his fate.
Darkness creeps from the corner of his eyes and he easily falls into its cocoon.
*
When he opens his eyes again, it comes to him naturally.
The pain that quivered through every crevice in his body had dulled into throbbing numbness. It only feels like the thrum of shamisen strings now — it reverberates quietly like a soft hymn, short-lived as it soon serves to spawn anew.
He’s still out of it—he can barely grasp onto reality or any of his surroundings. One thing he does know, though, is that this is not his home. His home is always buzzing with life—this spacious room felt empty, frigid and utterly stiff. It looks similar—tatami mats, wooden walls and a low ceiling, but the aura that it exudes feels disgustingly cold and oily—he wants to wipe it off.
Just as he clenches his eyes shut, a hand is on his face—the same hand he’d been in contact with not too long ago. His lids shoot open and he’s staring at the red eyes he’d wish he’d never see again.
His breaths suddenly spike—there’s not enough air—he’s scared all over again—he can’t feel anything—
“Shh,” he hears a hush. “Calm down—” He can’t. “Didn’t I promise, marechi?” That’s not him. “I won’t hurt you.” He knows you’re lying. The man caresses his hair as Zenitsu tries to calm himself down—there’s no use panicking—don’t be so weak!
“I cannot keep calling you marechi, can I?” The man speaks while Zenitsu tries to understand what is even going on. “Hmm,” he muses. His hand rests like a reassurance on Zenitsu’s head but all he can feel from it is absolute isolation. “Like the sun that brought forth the haunts of the oni, and the morning that ascends in its golden sleeve, with a back of vast, sparkling feathers and fragile petals…”
The man hummed, “You are the yellow chrysanthemum that blooms at the end of my everlasting summer. How about…Kigiku?” Nononono— Zenitsu can’t trust this man— he can’t just come and take his parents away and decide it’s okay to rewrite his name—the audacity of this person!
Zenitsu’s eyebrows furrows and his lips delve into a deep frown. He glares up at the man—and, oh, he’s feeling more in tune with reality now. Is this his plan? Zenitsu fell so easily to it—he bit the hook and he was instantly lured in.
Toothy grin and flashing, red eyes sour his vision. Zenitsu internally gawks. He starts to writhe, trying to shake the hand on his head away. It takes a bit more time of him struggling helplessly, but eventually he gets the hand off.
“You need to eat. I’m sure you’re hungry,” he says. The voice is so devoid of any emotions—Zenitsu feels like he’s talking to a stone with a face. He shuts his eyes again in hopes of blocking out what’s before him—the fear is still laced in his blood—it coils around his heart and ebbs in his mind—he can’t—
He’s being hoisted up to sit, but he thrashes, and he feels something hot lick his fist—whatever he knocked over had spilled into the futon and it burns. Zenitsu peels the futon away from his body, repulsed and hurt—he clambers to his feet, and he gets two steps across before he’s on his knees again.
Whywhywhy—he doesn’t want to do this anymore—he can’t do it! He sobs pitifully as he cowers in the corner of the room. “Oh, Kigiku.”
He’s not ready to die but he doesn’t want to suffer— so he struggles – why did it have to be like this—
Soft footsteps beat against the floor.
Something wet is sliding down his cheek. The man whose hand was through his mother’s heart had caressed him and what should a child do in this situation—he’s so lost, so so so, unbearably lost.
It suddenly feels like he’s threading through darkness. There is no sanctum within this plane of emptiness. Illusions of sanctuary, the chime of his mother’s laugh and the rhythm of his father’s gentle heartbeat are a faraway dream – they cannot exist in this diabolic expanse.
All that’s left here is the decaying scent of loneliness and the ugly sound of the Devil’s sneers echoing in his hungry maw. Zenitsu wants to scream but his parched throat can’t muster the strength. His voice is muted as it bubbles out in a quiet ring before all is gone.
He can’t quite remember what happened after the pain.
*
They feed him. By they, he means the man with red eyes, a confusing smile and a disgusting sound – or, lack of sound. Either way, it makes him recoil with distress and abhorrence.
It takes a bit of time for Zenitsu to realize that he's feeding him the bare minimum – probably to prevent him from recovering enough strength to do something.
He doesn’t mind. He’s used to the feeling of his stomach always empty and churning for at least a gram of something solid so it doesn’t eat itself in the wake of his hunger.
He finds out sooner or later that the man is called Muzan. That’s all he knows about him. He likes to babble to Zenitsu about his experiments and some other words he can’t bring himself to comprehend. In the end, it’s nothing but a jumble of syllables to his untrained mind.
*
Zenitsu rises to his feet.
So far, Muzan hasn’t done anything to hurt him—but there’s this feeling sitting at the bowels of his stomach, urging him to leave—to get up and make it out before anything could even happen. He’s terrified, he doesn’t know what will happen if Muzan catches him. But Zenitsu steels himself. He trusts his instincts—he’ll make it out.
Muzan has just finished feeding him, so he decides to attempt his first escape. He is dressed in a white and grey-striped jinbei. It’s as comfortable as comfortable gets—he doesn’t worry about it. What worries him, though, is that he’s never left this room. There are no windows—he has no sense of time in here.
There is an adjacent bathroom, but he’s never crossed the door opposite of the closet of futons before.
He approaches the door, and slowly and carefully, slides it open. He peeks his head out in a moment of bravery. Silence. He waits for a moment, admonishing his ears to listen better, if they could. Nothing. He stands there for what feels like a lifetime.
His chest feels like fireworks were being ignited, one by one. The dreaded feeling clamping at his lungs makes him nervous, but he continues. He steps out. It’s a hallway. A very long hallway. He’s heard Muzan’s steps fade into the right whenever he leaves, so he does just that and runs to the right.
There is nothing of importance as he’s quietly running along—it seems like an endless straight line.
It takes him five minutes to arrive at the end at a fork.
Zenitsu begins to panic—which way does he go now?! This is going to be the end of him—he’s tried but ultimately he’ll just fail and evoke a fate worse than death—
No. Calm down.
He listens for any sounds. Only silence greets him back. His breathing deepens—he’s panic-stricken. Nononono—
Footsteps. Coming from the left side. In the rush of his adrenaline, he sprints to the right. He doesn’t want to be caught—he doesn’t want to be caught. He’s afraid. So he runs. He runs until his heart is pulsating in a thundering cadence. He runs until his legs are burning. He runs until his lungs are begging for even the smallest reprieve.
He only stops when he comes across another fork. There’s a vase of chrysanthemums in the middle. Zenitsu is exhausted. He takes this time to keenly listen for any sounds and to catch his breath. There are footsteps echoing from the left side. Again. He takes the right. Again.
He runs and arrives at a fork. Again. There’s a vase of chrysanthemums. Again. Footsteps from the left. Again. To the right. Again.
The cycle continues; it’s an endless labyrinth. There’s no escape.
Sweat pours from his chin as he slumps onto the ground. This can’t be. WHY!?
Tears are prickling at his eyes, pooling at the corner and falling to trace milky tracks down his cheeks. He’s so exhausted. What’s happening—why is this happening—
“Kigiku.”
Zenitsu is startled out of his stupor. He freezes. His body is wracked with immense fear—one that pales in comparison with the ones before. Zenitsu knows he’s messed up—Muzan’s voice sounds like poison—electrified by venom and emblazoned by wrath.
If his breathing wasn’t irregular before, it was now.
He doesn’t want to die—he wants to live—he’s not ready to let go yet.
So in a fit of adrenaline, Zenitsu stands back up and takes the left this time. He wants to remember the feeling of the sun as it sears his skin to brown—he wants to bathe in it and blend in with the warmth!
He runs but Muzan’s voice is ingrained in his mind—he wants to go home!
“But Kigiku, you are home.”
Zenitsu arrives at the end of the hallway like all the other times before. The only difference is Muzan’s standing there as the black scent of death oozes from him. Zenitsu’s knees buckle and he stumbles onto the wooden floor. Muzan walks towards him. He’s petrified—nononono, don’t come any closer—don’t touch me—
Muzan’s hand is on his head and he screams.
Although the pain was imminent, Zenitsu can’t seem to get used to its icy breath as it bites down to engulf his everything.
He’s starting to think he’s forgetting what real warmth feels like.
*
Muzan is pissed.
That, at least he knows.
Zenitsu doesn’t try to escape again…yet.
But when he does, Muzan finds him again and he’s tormented until he can’t remember his mother’s name.
*
The third time he tries, he comes across something different. Rather than the usual chrysanthemums on the vases, on his third turn, he comes across roses.
From the roses grew thorns. They enveloped Zenitsu, and Muzan’s eyes flared a new type of red—vehement? No, that’s too soft of a word. It was something like dark, raging wildfires – running amok and untamed.
That time was the first time he wished his own death.
The world is getting unbearably colder the more he tries to feel the warmth.
*
Zenitsu stops trying after his fifth attempt.
*
“I am disappointed in you,” Muzan says. The only thing keeping Zenitsu upright right now was the rope hanging from the ceiling and holding his hands overhead. “Kigiku, I promised you, didn’t I?” The hand is on his head again, caressing in faux kindness. “I said harm would never come your way, but you brought this upon yourself.”
Muzan stands. “If we want this to work out, you will need to be punished.” He left. Zenitsu can’t bring himself to care anymore.
*
His punishment came in the form of restraints, a blindfold, darkness, and silence.
Muzan doesn’t come and feed him anymore.
He could withstand it. It will be fine. Zenitsu tries to recall his time with his parents—the time before Muzan ruined his life and kept him hidden in this hell.
But then Zenitsu realizes he couldn’t remember anything.
The joyful memories, the woeful memories and the bitter memories he holds with his two hands had slipped away. Zenitsu tries to keep his fingers as close as possible to keep them all together, but too focused on the very few remaining on his hands, he didn’t notice the ones disintegrating lifelessly on the floor.
He couldn’t tell his thoughts apart from his dreams. Reality and nightmares began to bleed into one soulful colour—black.
Zenitsu tries to look through the darkness with a glassy haze but all he could see was the solid ash of this impenetrable crucible of coldness and desolation.
*
He can’t hear. Or smell. Or see.
His voice is lost in the void.
It hurts to breathe.
*
The world is still.
It’s deathly silent, and his ears are starting to ring.
He screams to break the silence until his throat begs for relief.
The only thing he breaks is his sanity.
*
His hands claw at the door. His voice croaks as he begs to be released.
It’s dark, and lonely, and cold.
So so so so cold.
*
He doesn’t feel.
He tries to hear something but even his voice doesn’t reach his ears anymore.
Nothing is real.
*
“I won’t harm you.”
Lies. All of them. Lying.
“Don’t worry. I’m right here.”
He tries to drown out the voice, so he screams again.
*
“Zenitsu! Look, isn’t the sun beautiful?”
He doesn’t know where to look. The darkness veils him.
Oh.
Who’s Zenitsu?
*
Zenitsu’s Kigiku’s mind is rattling. Like a kaleidoscope. Every move he made, it would gyrate and the beads in its acrylic cell would clatter and roll freely in a never repeating configuration. All his thoughts were sparse and non-existent. The images were tangible, but they’d disappear the moment Zeni Kigiku tried to catch them.
He thinks this is what dying feels like because he can’t bear to think about whether his eyes are open or not—or if he’s dreaming or living—ah, it’s so jumbled.
Ze Kigiku desires for this kaleidoscope to shatter. To let it all free.
(Zenitsu is forsaken at the age of thirteen.)
*
Kigiku can’t remember what or who he was before the darkness.
He hopes Muzan will tell him when he comes back.
*
“Disappointed. So, so disappointed in you, Kigiku.”
He feels the pieces mould back into one as the silence shatters into nothing.
The light floods his eyes—it’s blinding—but Muzan is there, with a frown on his face and with the scarlet eyes Kigiku remembers with undying clarity. He clambers onto his feet, clumsy and uncoordinated like a new-born fawn, but regardless, he surges forwards—towards Muzan, towards those familiar red hues that shimmered dully like the sun.
In his pathetic attempts to walk, he trips forward, but Muzan catches him, and he falls right into the cold warmth. Kigiku can’t help the sob that flutters out of his throat—he feels overwhelmed—like something deep inside him was about to explode in a flurry of opalescent sparkles.
“I-I’m sorry!” he rasps. “I’m so sorry!”
Arms wrap around his lithe figure and he’s secure—safe; no harm will come his way when he’s enveloped by them. He buries his head on Muzan’s chest—the scent of chrysanthemum lingers, and the faint heartbeat is there—it’s somehow nostalgic – and Kigiku listens and listens and listens until the pulse is embedded into his memory.
He chants his apologies like a mantra—begging for forgiveness because he won’t do it again—he swears he won’t do it again! In between his heaves for breaths and chokes, he grovels, he desires Muzan’s forgiveness.
“Kigiku.” Muzan’s voice cut sharp amidst his shameful cries. He fights the impulse to stay close to the gentle tempo—such irresponsibility will only hinder his request for acceptance once again, so Kigiku looks up, ready to acquiesce to whatever the man says.
Muzan holds his face with his hand. He leans into the touch. “Remember when I called you marechi?” He doesn’t. “Marechi have palatable blood.” It was unfathomable—wherever Muzan was going with this. But it’s okay. He does not need to understand—as long he accepts Kigiku again.
The red eyes bear heavily into his. “Will you share your blood with me?” Blood? If Muzan wants blood, he knows he has plenty of that.
His mewl is his only answer as the man smiles endearingly back at him. Muzan leans down, and Kigiku bares his neck.
Fangs sink into his skin, and he’s back into the darkness.
*
Sometimes, he thinks of how long he’s been in that room for. Days? Months? Years? There’s nothing ever-changing in the room, so there’s no distinction he can use to calculate time. But he thinks it’s fine.
Because Muzan is there with him.
*
Muzan takes care of him. He wraps Kigiku up in the futon and always makes sure he’s well fed.
He asks Muzan why there are no windows. Muzan explains it’s to keep him secure—to prevent anyone from finding and harming him. It’s for his own safety. Kigiku doesn’t further question him. He believes him.
He doesn’t have any sense of time either. His circadian rhythm runs solely on his only light source; the light bulb hanging in the center of the room. It automatically turns off when he's expected to sleep.
He can’t tell how long he’s been kept in there. The days, hours, minutes—they all bleed together into one moment he cannot directly discern. His only contact with anything is Muzan.
Sometimes, the man comes in with a mountain of books in his arms. He’d read them to him—tell him the glorious tales of the knights and warriors, always appearing to save the day. These stories intrigued Kigiku.
In a way, Muzan was the warrior and he was the person to be saved gallantly, right? It seemed well-fitting—in this small, humble story of theirs.
(He never reads to him about the outside world.)
Sometimes, he comes in with colourful liquid in glassware. He pours one over the other, then mixes it gently to create a new colour to add to his ever-growing spectrum of hues. It’s beautiful, Kigiku thinks.
There are more, much more, colours Kigiku has ever known beyond these wooden walls. Cadmium yellow, amethyst purple, cobalt blue—ah, he wishes he could go out sometime with Muzan to see more of them.
*
His hair is growing longer. It’s just below his shoulders. Muzan brought a bundle of simple hair ties so it doesn’t bother him too much. Kigiku wonders if he should cut it.
Muzan has brought plenty of other things too; books and a variety of miscellaneous items—like a calligraphy set, and numerous liquids and mixing vessels for him to play around with. He’s also received a shamisen as a gift.
The man isn’t always there to indulge him so Kigiku makes do with what he has.
He has to admit, though. It does get lonely sometimes.
*
Blood is taken from him periodically.
Most of the time, Muzan punctures his neck and drinks from there.
Kigiku hates—despises the feeling but he never tells him. He’s still scared.
In other times, he comes with a needle and a small tube. The needles pierces through his skin and collects it in the tube. It glows golden.
*
“Would you like to meet other people?” Muzan asks as Kigiku’s flipping through one of his leather-bound books. It’s filled with pages upon pages of recipes, of elixirs—of solutions—of wishes to defy death and the gods; black ink nestled deeply into monochromatic fibers, written in flawless calligraphy to be immortalized among other thousands of his failures.
He nearly rips out a page when he hears the question.
“O-Other people?! I-I-!” His voice visibly trembles. He doesn’t want to see other people—he’s terrified of what’s out there; scared that they’ll hurt him! “Not at all!”
Images of him grappling for anything, anything at all in vain amidst the darkness flashes through his eyes. No—! He can’t—! He doesn’t want to go through that again. Struggling so fruitlessly, screaming, shouting as his voice rippled out in falling diminuendos—
He didn’t know his eyes were screwed shut until Muzan’s hand is petting his hair.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But I will be there. I won’t leave you.” The voice is soothing. He keens into the touch. Tears are already accumulating at the corners of his eyes as he shifts so he’s sitting by Muzan. Kigiku leans his head under the man’s arm. The obscure thump, thump he’s come to know well is there, vibrating ever-so softly—it assuages his own fears as he falls into practiced ease.
Muzan tucks him under his arm as he chuckles in amusement. “D-Don’t laugh…!”
“It can’t be helped. You’re so sheltered,” he berates in amusement. “I can’t believe I’m taking care of such a spoiled child.” Muzan sighs in exasperation but Kigiku can hear the sarcasm behind it clearly.
“I-I’m not! I’m just…scared. What if they hurt me?” Kigiku says. “And it’s normal to feel this way, right? I only know you, and nobody else.” He fidgets with the hem of his haori. “And you told me. The last time I was with someone else, they hurt me. They locked me, remember? How can I trust people so easily?” He doesn’t know what to do or say to other people either. He’d be stuck in an impasse.
“You don’t have to trust them.” The man slightly rearranges his elbow, so his hand sits atop Kigiku’s head again. “And, yes, I remember.” Muzan’s smile is saccharine as he comforts him.
“Kigiku.” His voice is gentle and kind. “What if I’m hurt and I leave you?” Kigiku abruptly looks up, instantly worried at the idea. But—!
“I can get hurt too, Kigiku. When I’m incapable of coming here, won’t it be good for someone to come here and tell you?” Muzan looks at him like he’s made of glass—flimsy and frail. “Think about it.”
*
Kigiku eventually agrees. He had to. What if what Muzan said does happen? Will he rot here? All by himself while Muzan lays incapacitated? He refuses. He’s selfish and he won’t allow himself to be left in the dark once again.
Compelled by both anticipation and the uneasiness in his nerves, he hides behind Muzan. They lean on each other, back to back. Muzan is scribbling all over his book for reasons only god knows while he’s trying to calm himself—there’s no doubt his heart is racing eighty miles per hour.
“I can feel your heart resonating on your back. Calm down, will you?” Muzan snorts. The sound of graphite is scratching heavily against paper—he tries to focus on it. He can't.
“I-I can’t! This is too much of step for me—I’M NOT TALL ENOUGH TO REACH THE NEXT STEP—”
Out of nowhere, Muzan turns his torso around and Kigiku finds himself falling back. His upper body is laid across Muzan’s lap. He pouts at the incredulous expression on the other’s face.
“Why are you looking—” Muzan flicks his forehead. “OW.” He cradles his assaulted forehead in his hands as he bitterly watches Muzan snort at him.
“Child abuse. How dare you,” he murmurs, because that’s the best insult he can come up with.
“Child? Debatable. You’re old enough to be starting your own family now—”
“I don’t want to hear that from you!” Kigiku jumps up and throws his entire body at Muzan; a feeble attempt at wrestling him. The man just catches him in his arms and they’re both on the floor, trying to tickle each other.
“You bra—”
Someone clears their throat.
They both freeze as they simultaneously look towards the other figure in the room. Kigiku’s visitor, and Muzan’s most ‘trusted friend’, stands awkwardly, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Kigiku nearly chokes out a lung as he sees three pairs of eyes on the man’s face. Just as he’s about to also permanently damage his vocal cords – because there’s a monster right in front of them—what’s he doing here—he’s freaky! — Muzan pushes himself upright, grabs Kigiku by the collar of his haori and peels him off of him before setting him down to sit seiza.
Kigiku is ready to bolt out of there – to move as far away as possible from whoever that person is, but Muzan keeps a hand on his shoulder.
The nerves are suddenly back at full force—he wants to desperately hide behind Muzan again—he’s retracting all that he’s said, he doesn’t want to do this, he can’t do it—
“Kokushibou, have a seat.”
The atmosphere is thick—heavy with tension. Kigiku is self-conscious on a whole new level. The man—Kokushibou—sits with his ankles tucked under him on the other side of the zataku table. Kokushibou bows as much as the table in front of him allows. “I have arrived as you requested, Muzan-sama.”
Kigiku gazes up at Muzan; the air around him feels different—like he’s an entirely new person. His eyes start to widen with fright—forgotten memories he never wants to see again are resurfacing. He’s ready to flinch away in horror, but as if sensing his inner turmoil, Muzan momentarily glances at him and smiles that smile he’s singed on his very retinas.
With a lot of hesitance, Kigiku peeks up at Kokushibou; his heartbeat was faint, but it was there—it reminded him of Muzan’s. If he has a similar rhythm to Muzan’s, then he shouldn’t be bad, right? He argues with himself. He can’t help but still be afraid of Kokushibou’s appearance though—he’s never heard of anyone having six eyes!
“This is Kigiku. I am putting him under your care when I am unable to visit him.”
The look on Kokushibou’s face says he’s sceptical. Of what? He’s not sure. But if Kigiku were to hazard a guess, it’s definitely his entire existence.
“Muzan-sama, may I speak out of turn?”
“Go on.”
“I apologize, but I must ask…what is he?” Kokushibou, just to tell you the truth, Kigiku himself, doesn’t know either.
Muzan sighs audibly – it seems like he was trying to avoid this question too. Well, aren’t they like peas in a pod?
To be honest though, Kigiku would like to know too.
He frantically looks between the both of them. The expressions on their faces are serious and the sudden change in their heartbeats does not go unnoticed.
“You trust me?” Muzan asks. The question is for him. Kigiku is highly strung again as the agitation and anxiety hits him at full force.
He nods hurriedly. “Of-Of course! Why wouldn’t I!” Muzan smiles at him, and Kigiku feels a lot better.
All of a sudden, Muzan wraps an arm around his head and tucks him into the soft material of his casual jinbei. The other picks up his hand as Muzan says, “Focus on my breaths and my heartbeat.” He does exactly as he says and like always, it instantly leaves him pliant – at peace as his mind eases like its teetering on the verge of sleep. His eyes flutter shut.
He barely feels the prick of Muzan’s nail on his wrist. He barely hears Kokushibou’s pained groans and Muzan’s order before he unknowingly finds himself succumbing to his dreams.
*
“Kuh…Muzan-sama—what is that…?” Kokushibou’s voice is muffled as he covers his nose with his haori’s sleeve. THE SMELL. He is about to go crazy with WANT and DESIRE. His heartbeat is becoming unstable—he feels intoxicated. He needs to sink his teeth into that flesh and devour it for himself—
“A marechi.”
“This potent…?” His fangs are protruding painfully against his gums—extending, extending, extending—wanting. The smell from one drop of blood alone was already making him intoxicated and frenzied—what will happen if he consumes the actual flesh. “Marechi blood is a delicacy…but his is not the same.”
“Indeed. Far different than anything I have come across in centuries.” Muzan-sama licks the drop of blood blooming at the boy’s wrist. Kokushibou bites down on his lips and with great difficulty, controls himself from jumping over the table—he cannot consume the boy—Muzan-sama has just entrusted him with Kokushibou. He can’t possibly think of betraying him.
“Is he the…final piece that you require?” The iron pang of blood fills the crevices of his mouth. The smell is gone, and he feels like he could breathe again without losing his mind.
“Perhaps. Kigiku plays an important part in my plans. Don’t let me down.”
Within that very moment, Kokushibou’s will to obey all of Muzan-sama’s orders was challenged by his innate instincts as a demon—all because he could barely control himself from the scent of a tiny drop of blood.
*
He expected Muzan to arrive at any moment, but instead, at his door was Kokushibou.
Kigiku immediately screams a lung out before he’s climbing inside the closet where he stores his futon. The monster is back! What does he do—Muzan’s not here! “Wh-What are you doing here?! YOU SHOULDN’T BE HERE!” he screams, undoubtedly horrified—most likely bordering hysterical.
He’s halfway in when Kokushibou sits down by the zataku. Judging by the sound emitting from him, he seems to hold no ill-intentions.
Sadly, that doesn’t stop Kigiku from stuffing himself inside the closet.
He watches Kokushibou through the small opening of the door. The man pulls out a book from his haori and just…reads. Kigiku does not know if he should be highly disturbed or reassured.
They stay like that for a while; Kokushibou reading and Kigiku afraid out of his mind. Muzan isn't there to protect him, and the worst part is, Muzan promised he'd be with Kigiku when there's other people— unless?
He bursts out of the closet. "Did something happen to Muzan?!"
Three pairs of eyes land on him, confused, questioning, and absolutely judging him for his horrible conduct. Kigiku's breathing is erratic as he fidgets on the spot, moving the weight of his body from one foot to the other, and wrenching the folds of his yukata. He couldn't stay still — couldn't bring himself to stay still.
Intent on gaining answers, however, he weakly glares back at Kokushibou. It is a pointless endeavour because as soon as the sound of a book snapping close thumps clear, he's shaken aback and he shrinks onto the floor, completely subdued.
He hears Kokushibou shuffle a bit, adjusting his sitting position to something more comfortable. "You do not need to worry, Kigiku-sama. Muzan-sama is unharmed."
Kigiku perks up quickly, the lines between his forehead smoothing over. “R-Really?!” he squeaks.
“Yes. He is, however, busy for the most part. He will not be seeing you anytime soon.” The words slap Kigiku like a bucket of cold water. His jaw opens—he wants to say something, but the sadness overwhelms him. His mood wilts, and he slumps on the floor like a rotting flower.
Kigiku is unsure of how long he stayed on the floor, sulking, but he was certain it was long enough to hear Kokushibou flipping through his book again. He sits up, and with no subtlety whatsoever, studies Kokushibou’s features.
Very, very, long hair, a mark running along his jaw, and six eyes—six eyes—in which world did people have six eyes? The middle pair had a character he couldn’t quite decipher.
“What—” are you, what is with your eyes, what is the mark on your face, what is the character on your pupils, what have you done to yourself—“a-are you r-reading?” A thousand questions drowned his mind, but he could only seemingly stammer out one that isn’t going to benefit—isn’t necessary to—the rest.
Kokushibou looks at him. If he had an eyebrow, Kigiku bets it would be raised dubiously.
“The Tale of Haruto,” Kokushibou says. “It is about an emperor who desires to capture the sun…”
Kigiku cocks his head to the side. “The sun…?” he echoes. The word sounds so foreign in his mouth. “Y-You can’t capture the sun. It’s too far away and…and you can’t claim it just because you want it!”
“As anyone would think… Haruto was indeed a selfish man. He desired, and whatever he desired…he exclaimed he needed to have.” Kigiku’s expression morphs into something spiteful.
“In the end, d-does he capture it? The sun?”
“Well…shall we read and find out?”
*
Kigiku forgets about his fear of Kokushibou.
The man now frequents his room, while Muzan is – again – busy with god knows what. It doesn’t bother him as much as he had initially thought, since Kokushibou comes and offers his own weird type of companionship.
For the first few visits, they are reading The Tale of Haruto, sharing the one tiny book Kokushibou brings. Kigiku has to lean in and basically rest his head on Kokushibou’s arm, but he adjusts well into it after realizing that his sound resembles that of Muzan—a lot. It’s somewhat comforting.
Kokushibou turns to Koku, and Kigiku-sama turns to Kigiku. He knows the latter isn’t much of a step but at least he had dropped the stiff honorific.
Meanwhile, he finds that the story is quite long. It spans seven acts, each with multiple scenes of their own. It drags out, Kigiku finds. But what interests him the most is how Emperor Haruto evolves.
In the beginning, Emperor Haruto is described as fallible, but he would like to argue that Emperor Haruto is just simply egoistic, greedy and so, so, so, terribly narcissistic. All he cared for were his riches, palace, and the young women offered to warm his bed each night. If he wanted it, his servants gave it to him. It frustrates him how someone could be so uncaring.
Emperor Haruto selfishly declares, in the third act, that he wants to imprison the sun as an addition to his collection. His servants move to obey his command but instead, are burned to crisps the closer they try to approach it. Kigiku weeps for the lives lost.
The story hits its climax in the midst of the fifth act. The emperor’s own country rebel against him—he had neglected his role, and thus, had evoked the people’s anger. He escapes with nothing but a haori on his back.
It is then revealed that the emperor’s family had been murdered in the wake of his father’s weakness. Emperor Haruto, at a young age, had been shaped by spite and anger – bitter and resentful for being left alone. As they read about the emperor’s story, they had to stop because Kigiku couldn’t stop the tears streaming down his face. Kokushibou awkwardly pats his back as he’s sobbing his eyes out.
Mindless and with nowhere to go, Ex-Emperor Haruto travels to the sun so he could apologize for all the heartless things he had done – not just to the sun, but to everyone.
In the seventh and final act, Haruto overcomes his fears of being burned. Lamentably, he is burned. Fortunately, he gets close enough so the sun could hear him—he tells it about all the things he regrets doing, and he doesn’t ask for forgiveness, but for his own death and the peace of the people.
The sun acquiesces, but as he burns, Haruto feels his loneliness erase; the heat of the sun isn’t painful at all—it was warm, gentle, kind, and Haruto understands that those last moments were the only moments he really wanted—needed in life.
By the end of the book, Kigiku is bawling. Kokushibou doesn’t know how to handle the situation or console him at all, so Kigiku tries to calm himself down. He hugs the book tightly as he rides out the last of his cries.
“Ko-Koku,” he sniffs. “H-Have you e-ever felt the sun?”
The man considers his question for a brief moment. He says, “I have...however, I cannot say that I felt it…as strongly as Haruto did.”
“M-Maybe you weren’t…close enough?”
“Perhaps? Would you like to see the sun one day too, Kigiku…?”
He looks down at the book. “Yeah…I don’t want to take it like Haruto did but…I’d like to see and feel it too. One day!” he smiles. “I want Muzan to be there. When I see the sun.” Kokushibou smiles faintly as he pats his head.
*
After many days—possibly weeks—of not seeing Muzan, Kigiku is beyond ecstatic when he finally comes back. He runs to him and hugs him. It is quiet as he puts his ear against Muzan’s chest.
They are quiet but it takes a turn for the worse when he tells him that he wants to go out.
“No,” Muzan says sternly.
“Wha—why?” he whispers.
Muzan puts a hand on his head but it doesn’t feel reassuring at all—it feels controlling and it scares him.
“It’s dangerous outside. Who knows what can happen? You are special, Kigiku, and people want special things—I cannot risk your safety.” The conversation doesn’t go any further.
The moment Muzan comes back, and the mood between them is already unpleasant. So, he apologizes, and Muzan takes his blood. He curls up on Muzan’s lap after and listens to the man’s heartbeat until he falls asleep.
Their reunion is bittersweet. He reminds himself to never talk about going outside.
*
Muzan ravages through the books and items in Kigiku’s room as the boy sleeps that night—searching for anything that mentions, signifies, or even resembles a sun. He doesn’t want him thinking about what’s out there.
He doesn’t find anything. He’s extremely displeased.
*
Muzan walks in when Kigiku is braiding Kokushibou’s hair.
He doesn’t notice or hear the door slide open then close—too engrossed at the task at hand—neither does he notice Muzan standing there, possibly questioning what he’s doing with Kokushibou’s hair. Kigiku only notices him when Kokushibou greets the man.
“Hello…Muzan-sama.”
Kigiku positively brightens up when he does notice him though. He averts his gaze from the braid to Muzan’s blood, red eyes. “Muzan! Guess what!” he joyfully asks as he holds the hair he’s painstakingly weaved. “Koku is letting me braid his hair, but we’re finding it isn’t as easy as the drawings on the book make it look.”
“As I had figured...the task requires nimble fingers and attention to fine detail…”
Kigiku pouts at Kokushibou’s remark. “Hmph, I know I have neither of those! No need to rub salt all over the wound.”
“Only a necessity…to keep the wound from festering,” Kokushibou smirks.
Kigiku sputters, “That’s not how it works at all!??”
“And you say I read too many books…?” Kokushibou says.
Kigiku doesn’t miss the sarcastic tone. He feels a bit insulted. “You do?! The only difference is that you’re a complete sap! Most of the ones you read are either tragedies with twisted happy endings or the protagonist retributes and finds love.”
“We all have our interests…or shall I mention to Muzan-sama your…questionable hobby of writing about—”
“AHHHH! IS THAT A GECKO I HEAR?!” Kigiku dives and slings himself over Kokushibou’s back, successfully cutting him mid-sentence. They both topple forward, and all the hard work he had done on Kokushibou’s hair comes undone, but he’s not particularly concerned because he has some things he hides too?!
Kigiku knows his face on fire, but then he hears Muzan chuckle, and now he is sure he wants to burn alive instead.
“Hmm, so Kigiku has a questionable hobby?” Muzan says as he sits down. Muzan rests his elbow on the table, and his chin on his fisted hand. “I would like to know what this thing Kigiku like to write about.”
“If I may provide—"
“NO, YOU MAY NOT!” Kigiku squawks as he shifts all of his weight on Kokushibou’s back. “AND NO, YOU DO NOT!!” He can’t—! Kokushibou’s audacity, he swears! He will have this man’s head if he decides to kill Kigiku with embarrassment!
“He also has a hidden stash—”
“KOOOOKUUU!”
“Hidden stash?”
“Yes, he—”
“AHHH! STOP TALKING ABOUT IT!” By now, he’s a living, walking tomato, curved on top of Kokushibou—please! Someone save him from his shame!
“About your hobby to write or your stash—”
“BOTHH!”
“Kigiku’s hiding secrets from me? I feel a bit left out.” Muzan’s tone is a mixture of hurt and sarcasm, but he decides he’s had enough, so he gets off Kokushibou’s back and sulks at the corner of the room.
“I hate both of you…” He doesn’t mean it, and it doesn’t take Muzan long to get him out of his withdrawn state—just a hug and a pat. He feels outrageously irritated with himself for giving in so easily.
*
Muzan and Kokushibou are cruel—blatant, dual-faceted, audacious, cruel people.
“I DON’T CARE!”
“Please do not lie. It’s unbecoming of you.”
“I DON’T WANT TO PUT ON MAKE-UP JUST BECAUSE YOU SAW—”
“Oh, so you will put it on if…you don’t want Muzan-sama to compare…?”
“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!”
“I see.” Muzan and Kokushibou look at each other. “He did not deny it…does that mean it is true, Muzan-sama?”
“I believe so. It cannot possibly mean something else.”
“UGH! You two are impossible—!”
*
The memory is vague, though he faintly remembers waking up from a nap and falling right back to sleep after nudging Muzan and saying, “Most of us live our entire lives…without seeing the insides of our body…”
*
As Kigiku’s learning how to tie different types of knots, he hears multiple footsteps approaching his room. When they enter, he’s hidden in the closet—again.
“Kigiku,” he hears Muzan say. No matter how much he wants to go and hug Muzan, anxiety racks his brain. He shouldn’t—! Why are there more feet clambering in his room—why did Muzan think it’s a good idea to introduce him to more people!
An exasperated sigh permeates his ears—Muzan is disappointed, again.
He’s sorry—he’s afraid, weak and his impossibly low self-esteem whispers to him and drags him across the dirt. He hugs his knees—god, why is he so useless?
“Wait outside.”
More footsteps. The door to the closet slides open and disbelief is written all over Muzan’s face.
“Are you scared?” He silently nods as the tears swell. “I promised, didn’t I? Or have you already forgotten?”
“No, I—”
“Then what is there to be afraid about?” Muzan is smug, Kigiku, however, not so much. He’s certain his heart is about to leap out of his rib cage.
“N-Nothing,” he mutters. Why is he so pathetic?
“That’s right, so trust me as I always tell you.” Muzan offers his hand—he takes it and he is led out of the closet. He instantly clings onto Muzan’s arm like a hermit—holding onto it like it’s a goddamn lifeline. Though, if he was honest, it might as well be—he thinks he will die from how irregularly fast his heart is beating.
With his other hand, Muzan pats his head – it doesn’t help, so he opts for listening to the man’s kind sound instead. It helps calm him down, not by a lot, but it still helps. Muzan lets him settle down, giving him a few minutes to brace himself before telling them to come back in.
Kigiku is half hidden behind Muzan when a man walks in and sits down by the wall farthest from him and Muzan. The man has rainbow-coloured eyes—he thinks they’re really pretty—a creepy smile and even creepier sound—Kigiku wilts under his scrutiny.
The man Muzan introduces as Douma is enigmatic. Kigiku doesn’t know what he sees, but everything about Douma feels superficial and fictious.
*
For reasons he cannot understand, Douma keeps coming back.
He and Kokushibou lounging in his room becomes a recurring event. While Kokushibou mostly reads, Douma expresses every thought, idea, notion—everything—that happens to cross his mind.
Kigiku was downright scared witless of Douma within his first view visits—still is, actually. Douma is different. Unlike Kokushibou, Douma’s demeanour is a whole new concept to him—how could someone keep up such a façade for so long? His ears do not lie to him, and it is patently obvious Douma is wearing a mask; his face only mimicking emotions he’s seen before.
However, it changed when Douma began to get comfortable around him and vice versa. Underneath all the layers, Douma’s an empty husk. Douma appals him. He’s never heard such a disgusting sound before.
*
Douma sickens him to his very core, so he reads and ignores anything and everything that dare comes out of his mouth.
He questions Muzan and the logic behind his decision to allow Douma in his room.
*
The fourth person he meets is called Akaza.
The first thing Kigiku realizes after their first meeting is that they started off on the wrong foot. Akaza is repulsed by him, this much, he knows—for what reasons? He has no idea. Meanwhile, he, on the other hand, was the epitome of trepidation—all of his cells vibrated in inconsolable terror as Akaza's eyes bore holes through him.
He hopes to remedy this if he's expecting Akaza to be a regular in his humble abode.
*
The second time Akaza visits, he sits there and says nothing. He stays for not even two minutes before he's up and leaving.
*
Next is Daki and Gyuutarou. Daki is extremely beautiful while Gyuutarou…Kigiku doesn’t know what he’s saying half of the time.
There is not much to say aside from the fact Daki called him ugly the second time they visit.
Gyuutarou sighs and says something snappy. They both end up bickering as Kigiku serves them tea.
Needless to say, he spills the tea.
Daki immediately loses it and teaches him how to properly do it.
“Like this! Take your time, the person isn't going anywhere anytime soon—there is no need to rush!” Daki's voice is shrill and it grates Kigiku's ears, but her movements are flawless, uninhibited and simply graceful.
“D-Daki! You're amazing!” he eagerly says. “It's not a wonder at all why Muzan is friends with you.” His smile is wide as Daki sputters in disbelief.
“O-Of course, it is only expected! I am a woman of many talents, and don't you forget it.”
*
Akaza's most recent visit leaves Kigiku shook.
It's only the two of them, and Kigiku is a ball of nerves. Luckily, he has gotten a whole lot better at this 'meet and greet' Muzan seems to be pushing onto him — he has partially accepted that they won't hurt him, no matter how detestable their sound is (i.e., Douma). So at least he has swallowed down his fear of being hurt. On the other hand, it doesn't stop him from being jittery.
Akaza takes a seat across Kigiku from the zataku. Akaza's unimpressed gaze burns through him, and the closet door tempts him to return into its sanction. He doesn't know what comes over him, but he steels his nerves and manages to somehow look Akaza back in the eye without faltering.
He lasts approximately three seconds before he's slumping again, eyes downcast as he fiercely grits his teeth—dammit, why is he so weak-willed? It's starting to frustrate him even more.
He hears a tongue click as he berates himself. The sound clenches his heart. If possible, he slumps down even further. His posture is atrocious—
“I hate you,” Akaza says and Kigiku immediately feels the air in his lungs leave—like it's all sucked out and stolen by a void. He bites his lips, dejected.
He doesn't say anything—the voice in his head is already saying everything he wants to say. I'm sorry, I understand if you hate me— I'd hate me too—
Akaza scoffs, “You're so weak, frail—it looks like a small breeze can knock you over. I don't understand why Muzan-sama insists on keeping you. It's like he's taken pity over your meaningless life and decided it's not even worth killing you.”
Oh.
“You shouldn't act so smug. You're just leftover trash he's probably going to discard sooner or later unless you find a way to be useful,” Akaza says. He glares at him one more time before leaving.
Kigiku sits there as his fears, self-doubt, and anxieties ferment in the cauldron of his mind.
He quietly cries himself to sleep.
*
Kokushibou arrives and he's sleeping.
It's hazy but his dreams are nonexistent, so he aimed to resolve the problem by sleeping it off. There is no pain in his dreams— just a barren land where nothing thrives.
He decides that it is the easier option than having to deal with the thoughts that decay his mind.
*
He finds that he sleeps a lot these days.
Muzan says that he's missing meals. It can't be helped, he has no appetite either, and he feels so sluggish—he doesn't feel like moving or doing anything at all; there is no motivation to drive his bones.
*
Kigiku thinks Douma understands what's going on. For all his experience in the field, Douma most likely has an inkling of what is eating Kigiku away.
Douma dons his mask again. He caresses Kigiku's hair as he murmurs sweet nothings into his ears. Kigiku cannot tell if Douma is avidly worried or just doing his job per Muzan's orders.
In the end, he realizes that he doesn't care. Douma's presence only makes it worse as his terribly ugly sound permeates the air.
*
He doesn't blame Akaza for his sudden spiral. The man spoke of the truth, and there's nothing wrong with that.
It's all your fault, you have no right to hold others accountable for your lack of ability to do anything, his mind supplies.
He doesn't want to listen to the voice, so he sleeps.
*
He stays awake long enough for Daki to help him bathe. She is gentle and patient, and Kigiku loves the sound she makes.
Sometimes Gyuutarou is there too, holding his hand and tracing invisible circles on his palm as Daki feeds him miso soup.
They are kind. Sadly, Kigiku thinks it's wasted on him.
*
Daki is perturbed.
She has come to love and adore Kigiku, so when he starts acting weird, like sleeping a lot and missing the majority of his meals, she worries.
“Daki,” Kigiku mutters as Daki tucks him in his futon. “Thank you.” She smiles, bittersweet.
*
He regains his groggy consciousness to Muzan petting his hair.
“Kigiku, what is the matter?” the man says, worry flowing thickly in his voice. Kigiku only smiles as his eyes flutter shut. Nothing. He would like to apologize for his uselessness, though.
He loses his grasp on reality before he could summon the words.
*
"What is happening to him? His room is sterile. Every piece of item brought into that room has been cleaned and processed—how is he sick?"
“I am...not sure. I apologize, Muzan-sama...I am at a loss as much as you are…”
Muzan is aggravated.
“If I may, Muzan-sama. I believe that Kigiku-dono is suffering mentally. I have seen it within my followers. Their mental state deteriorates for they are being heavily burdened by something, and I believe that they try to escape the pressure by sleeping it off, as their dreams are much kinder than the reality they face.”
“Suffering mentally? How could he be suffering mentally? Before all this 'sleeping' happened, he was still trying to braid Kokushibou's hair with Daki's help.”
“Hmm, this is quite the paradox. If I am to guess the worst-case scenario, one of us had said something to him and triggered a chain reaction. It is highly unlikely, but it is possible.”
Muzan's anger saturates the air as he says, “If that is the case and I find that one of you had caused this, I will make sure you face a fate worse than death.”
Akaza and Daki were quiet the entire time.
*
Kigiku wakes up as an epiphany hits him.
Akaza said that he needs to find a way to be useful to Muzan, right? And what best way could he be useful? Muzan says his blood is special.
So, lethargic and feeble, he pushes the futon off of his body and crawls over to the shelf with Muzan's glassware. He determines that he should harvest his own blood so Muzan doesn't have to do it.
As he is grabbing the largest glassware possible, it dawns upon him that he has nothing to pierce his skin with.
He gets creative and ends up shattering one of the smaller tubes into pieces. The glass scatters all around him. He grabs the biggest and sharpest piece he could find. Mind still foggy, he aligns his wrist with the glassware and slides the jagged piece across his wrist. It hurts—it stings, but he bites his teeth down and endures it as he watches the blood flow and accumulate.
Akaza told him to be useful. He can't protect Muzan or be allowed outside, so he settles for what Muzan says everyone wants from him.
His wrist aches, and the flow of blood is slow. He slashes again, but this time, deeper. Moremoremore—he can't present a puny amount of blood to Muzan! He needs more.
The pain is immense—he urges himself on—it's for Muzan. It's necessary.
He fills up the vessel. He is not sure how much it is, but the container is roughly the same size as his fist. His grabs another one and let's it pour down that as well.
Kigiku can't recall how long he was watching his blood drip from his veins. Though before he could comprehend, the room is on its side and he's plummeting down. The shards of glass prickle his neck and the side of his face.
As he falls, he knocks over the vessels and—nononono! He needs to give this to Muzan—Muzan needs his blood! He needs to be useful—!
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Huh? Is that Akaza? He glances over and it is.
Akaza, quick! the blood, it's pouring—!
“You idiot!” Akaza admonishes. What does he mean? He's trying to be useful, to be worthy of Muzan!
Akaza rushes over to him, kneeling by his side. He slings an arm under his neck and the other under the crook of his knee— wait, where are you taking him! Akaza, the blood!!
They're in the bathroom and the blood is all over his jinbei. It's soaked all the way through, and it cakes his hair. He can feel his wrist still bleeding, and everything is suddenly amplified. Akaza's heavy breathing, the water cascading, and his own slow heartbeat.
He's a bit tired, he feels like going back to sleep. "A-Akaza," his voice is raspy and weak. He painstakingly raises his hand, reaching for Akaza's fumbling hands as the man applies pressure to his wrist. “Sorry…I c-couldn't...be more useful—”
“Stop talking!” Akaza roars.
Kigiku is startled for a brief moment. He smiles at Akaza. He barely notices Kokushibou and Daki entering as his vision blurs.
His eyes close and he doesn't need to wait long for the darkness to engulf him whole.
*
They stopped the bleeding.
They fret—all three of them. Muzan-sama had entrusted them with this task but they all failed.
Kokushibou wraps the wound, Daki changes Kigiku out of his blood-drenched jinbei and cleans the glass shards all over his face. Akaza wipes down the blood, all the while they're biting the inside of their cheeks, willing themselves to not devour the human before them.
It smells like a feast—the fragrance tickles their noses and the longer they're in that room, the more their wills are challenged, simply invited by that tantalizing marechi blood.
As soon as they're finished, they make haste, and Kokushibou immediately hoists Kigiku in his arms and they're moving to the spare room six hallways away.
Akaza and Daki quickly set up the futon. Kokushibou lays Kigiku down and Daki tucks him in. She wades her fingertips across the boy's scalp and breathes words of encouragement into his ear.
They are quiet until Kokushibou is directly in front of Akaza, looming over him menacingly. “What happened.” Kokushibou's wrath oozes as Akaza stubbornly refuses to look at him.
Akaza grits his teeth. “I don't know.”
“Don't lie...you are the one who sent Kigiku into this state...don't say I'm wrong...I have noticed the signs, and I have not said anything to Muzan-sama solely because I was not sure myself.”
Akaza says nothing. He needs not to—the pained expression on his face already says everything.
“I will not take your life...but know this, Muzan-sama will find out...and you better be prepared because he will have more than just your head.”
Kokushibou's eyes narrow dangerously. “You are disgraceful for not realizing that Kigiku is just as important to Muzan-sama as his mission...if you disturb the hierarchy again, I will deal with you myself if Muzan-sama hasn’t...”
Daki hugs Kigiku as he sleeps. She hope he finds happy dreams.
*
Muzan’s soothing voice pulls him out of his dreamless sleep. A hand holds his. He feels warm. Muzan is smiling at him—he smiles back.
“How are you feeling?”
Kigiku hums quietly momentarily, pondering the question—he’s not quite sure how to answer it. “Warm…like the sun is shining on me.”
(He misses the way Muzan’s eyes narrow.)
“That’s…good. Are you hungry?”
“No…just sleepy.”
“Will you at least eat a few bites—for me?”
He meekly nods. “Okay.”
Sitting upright is a whole nightmare and a half—he feels boneless.
As he’s sipping miso soup, something unknown dredges in the back of his mind—like déjà vu. He wills it down.
*
Muzan-sama shackles Akaza outside and watches him scream as the very first rays of the sun withers his skin.
When he’s had enough, Akaza is dragged by his collar and thrown inside the fortress. Muzan-sama seethes.
“I don’t like repeating myself. I told you didn’t I? Kigiku is important to my plans. You nearly jeopardized everything with your pathetic pettiness. If this happens again, consider yourself dead.”
Akaza cements in his mind that everything Muzan-sama says is absolute—there is no point in questioning it.
*
Akaza is a lot kinder to him after whatever debacle had transpired.
His memory is very fuzzy—he only remembers remnants of the past days? Weeks? It’s puzzling him so he tries not to think about it.
His road to recovery is slow—slower than Muzan had apparently anticipated. The wounds on his wrist take long to heal and his body is still trying to catch up.
Daki and Akaza are always at his side—he’s not too worried.
*
“I’m sorry, and…It’s not your fault,” he says to Akaza as Akaza wipes his arms with a wet cloth.
Akaza’s movements falter. “You’re right t-that I’m not much of a use to Muzan…except for my blood. I thought that I could…give him more so he doesn’t have to do it him—"
“Shut up.”
“But— I—!”
“You don’t need to apologize—there’s nothing to apologize for.” Akaza wipes his wrist tenderly. “It’s…It’s all my fault. I was being petty and thoughtless, and-and Muzan-sama really cares for you.” Kigiku sees the dust of pink on his cheeks. He’s abashed. “So don’t go thinking that he doesn’t…or he will be worried.”
Akaza’s sound is suddenly fond and loving. He smiles at Akaza.
Kigiku said he would definitely remedy their wrong-footed meeting. He can, he will, and he has.
*
“Koku, what’s a courtesan?”
Kokushibou drops the book resting on his palm, and Akaza misses the spike and the ball of his kendama dangles as he looks at Kigiku, bewildered. “Oh, I win!”
Kokushibou clears his throat and picks up his book. “Where did you hear that from?”
“Hm? Oh! Gyuutarou called Daki a “shameless courtesan”. I’m not sure what a courtesan is?” he says as he cocks his head to the side.
The man with six eyes rubs his temple as if he’s perplexed. “It’s…” Kokushibou starts but instantly pauses, like he’s second-guessing his words. “It’s someone who will…dance with you.”
“Dance? Oh, like Naomi from Spiralling Waves?!” Naomi, a miko from the book Spiralling Waves, had regularly performed the kagura dance—a dance merely for the god’s entertainment.
“Yes.”
Akaza’s head swiftly turns towards Kokushibou, utterly perplexed. “Eh?!”
“Yes,” Kokushibou repeats. “Exactly like Naomi.”
“So that means Daki is a miko like Naomi?”
“…yes.”
“Woah! Daki is amazing, isn’t she?”
*
“You absolute, story-spinner, two-faced liar,” Akaza says as they’re walking along the hallway.
“Would you rather I explain what a true courtesan is to him?” Kokushibou retaliates.
“I—point taken but it still feels wrong lying to him.”
“I think Muzan-sama would rather have us lie to him than tell him of the pleasures humans seek.”
“You’re right—no, wait! He’s like, sixteen! I think he deserves to know a bit more now.”
“Muzan-sama controls what information he is given. You cannot decide that for yourself.”
“YOU READ ROMANCE BOOKS TO HIM ALL THE TIME?!”
“He loves them.”
Akaza sighs, exasperated. “Fuck…you’re right.”
*
“Ki-gi-kuuu~!”
“Nooo, go away, Douma—! LET GO!”
“But you must eat!”
“I WILL! But you don’t have to feed me like a child! I can hold the chopsticks on my own.”
“BUT YOUR WRIST—”
“Is fine! Fine, I tell you!”
Douma sniffs dramatically. “Oh, how they grow up so quickly.”
*
“I think Gyuu should eat more watermelon,” Kigiku says while eating the food Daki and Gyuutarou brought. “Don’t they say watermelons are good for the complexion?”
“Eeehhh, Kigiku is too caring,” Gyuutarou rasps. “I’m enviouuuss—people will take Kigiku if Kigiku is too nicee.”
Daki harrumphs as she bunches Kigiku’s brown hair in a neat ponytail. “Not in my watch. They’ll have to get through me first.”
Kigiku laughs. “I can’t make Daki fight for me—Akaza’s never going to let me live it down.” Daki loops the hair through a hair tie and secures it. “And really, I think Gyuu should eat more. I can see your ribs.”
“Nooo, Kigiku thinks I’m too skinnyyy?”
“Yes, you need more meat.”
“Theeeen, can I have Kigiku’s meaaat?”
Kigiku doesn’t even get a word out before Daki’s throwing her hair ornaments at Gyuutarou. Gyuutarou catches the ornament and mindlessly puts it on his head. Kigiku guffaws at their antics.
*
Kigiku steps back to look at his amazing work.
“Congratulations, it only took you 17 futile attempts, 92 resets and many hours of blood and sweat,” Muzan mockingly says. “More importantly, you wouldn’t have gotten this far without Daki’s help.”
Kigiku stumbles on his words as he throws a hair tie at Muzan. “Shut up.”
“I must say, this is very impressive, Kigiku,” Kokushibou says. His hair has been tied into a braid and encircled at the back to form a braid bun.
Kigiku crosses his arms—he feels a bit (just a bit) smug. “I think Koku can work as an oiran now too, don’t you think, Muzan?”
“Yes, he makes a wonderful woman.”
Kigiku knows he’s won because he’s certain Kokushibou knows what it feels like to be in Kigiku’s shoes.
*
Douma says he’s going to bite him if he doesn’t play nice. Douma is a load of bull, so Kigiku throws a shogi piece at him.
*
Kigiku and Akaza burn a hole through the floor as they’re mixing chemicals together.
Kigiku, like the clumsy, butter-fingered brat he is, stubbed his toe on the table and dropped the test tube. The liquid spilled and completely ate through the wooden floor.
In the midst of their panic, they decide to stuff paper in the hole and put one of the table’s foot over it. The hole wasn’t too big, but it was glaringly obvious when it wasn’t hidden.
The both hope no one moves the table.
*
He thought their tender days could last.
Daki and Gyuutarou stop visiting him. The visits between the others are starting to become far and few. Meanwhile, when Muzan visits, he is aloof—often submerged in his own books and experiments.
When he’s laying his futon out, he bares his courage and seizes the chance to ask Muzan. “Where are Daki and Gyuu…? I-I haven’t seen them in a while.” Muzan continues scribbling in his book. He doesn’t look up at Kigiku. He receives no answer, so he resumes with unfolding his futon dejectedly.
As he’s preparing to sleep, Muzan finally closes his book. “They won’t be coming back.”
Kigiku stops mid-action. “Wha—”
“They moved to another town. They’re too far and can’t visit regularly anymore.”
“Oh,” he robotically says. He slides into his futon as the sadness creeps in. Muzan shuffles around. He sits by Kigiku and Kigiku takes out one of his arms from under the futon.
Muzan pushes the needle into his vein. He journeys through his illusionary dreams that night restlessly. He misses Daki already.
*
Muzan is a liar. Gyuutarou is dead, as he had calculated. He’s severely disappointed.
It’s been hundreds of years and there is no progress made.
He’s displeased and he’s starting to think his demon moons exist for no reason.
*
Kokushibou is the next to be scarce.
Douma is annoying, so he asks Akaza about the matter as they’re launching beigoma and watching them spin.
“Where’s Koku? He hasn’t been here for…two dozen sets of lights out.”
Akaza doesn’t look away from the beigoma. “Muzan-sama ordered him to do something. He will be back if he’s successful.”
Akaza’s reply makes him hopeful.
*
Eventually, Akaza is gone too, and there’s only Douma left.
He pouts and sulks whenever Douma’s around—he really doesn’t like Douma’s sound.
“Aww, Kigiku, don’t be like that.”
“It can’t be helped. Your sound is gross!”
Douma dramatically falls onto the tatami mats like he’s an actor in a kabuki theatre. Kigiku rolls his eyes. “Oh, you wound me!”
He doesn’t indulge Douma with a retort. They are silent as Kigiku reads and Douma lounging. He finishes the book. “So? Where is everyone going?”
Douma scratches his chin like he’s really thinking—he’s not. “I don’t think I can give you the full details, but let’s just say Muzan-sama has found something interesting—he doesn’t want the moon to wane, after all.”
That did not help—he’s just even more confused now.
*
Muzan is collecting more blood. He feels quaint the next time he wakes up, so he eats lots of bread.
*
No one visits as frequently as before.
Muzan and Douma visits but they are sparse—he feels cold and alone. When Muzan visits, he’s firm and quick to snap. He can tell that the amount of blood Muzan is collecting is increasing each time because he feels significantly weaker when he wakes up compared to last time.
Douma is still annoying. Kigiku thinks that’s a universal constant.
*
Muzan slides his door abruptly and the bang that accompanies it reverberates across the hallway. Kigiku is startled as he looks up from the book he’s reading.
Muzan hurries to his side and—hugs him?
He hugs back, sliding his hand up and down on Muzan’s back in comfort. They stay like that for a bit. Kigiku is conflicted—he can’t decide between asking Muzan what the matter is and keeping quiet. He ponders his options but Muzan already chooses for him when he breaks the silence.
“Stay here,” Muzan says, firm.
He doesn’t need a second to think of a reply. “Okay.”
“Never leave.”
“I won’t.”
“You can’t go outside.”
“Mhm.”
“Don’t go anywhere, no matter what.”
“I don’t know where I will go.”
He is delusional if he thinks Muzan cried.
*
Douma is gone too. Muzan comes, he likes to think.
Ah, the hunger is messing up his brain.
*
“Stay, don’t ever leave.”
“Okay.”
“I will be back. You just need to stay in here.”
“Yeah.”
*
He thinks Muzan comes.
(He doesn’t.)
*
His food is running out. Fortunately, he doesn’t need to worry about water, so he starts by spreading out his meals. In some days, he doesn’t eat. He only eats when his stomach threatens to devour itself.
*
He has been counting.
The lights have turned off nineteen times since the last time Muzan came.
There is no more food.
*
His stomach is inconsolable. He only drinks water and he sleeps his hours away. He believes in Muzan—in Koku, Akaza, Daki and Gyuu, and hell, even Douma—to come back to him.
The lights turn off and he doesn’t pull the futon out of the closet. He curls by the door, listening closely for any footsteps.
It’s deathly silent the entire night.
*
At one point, the voice in his mind comes back.
But he tells himself that he promised Muzan—he told him that he would stay here and never leave. He can endure it—he has to endure it.
He trusts Muzan and Muzan trusts him. Muzan will come. Muzan will be here soon. Muzan won’t let him get hurt.
God, how long can he keep lying to himself.
*
“I’ll come back for you.”
When? WHEN?!
He’s so tired of waiting. His throat is parched, and his own body is eating itself.
*
The lights have turned off twenty-four times since he last ate anything solid.
He tries to ignore the pain simmering inside of him.
*
“You trust me, right?”
He does! He does.
So come back soon, you absolute, filthy liar.
*
He’s lost count of the times the lights have turned off.
They promised that they’d protect him – keep him from the darkness.
A bunch of liars, they all are.
*
There’s a blurry image of a man in his mind.
He decides not to trust him anymore.
There’s only the cold and the loneliness, and the darkness that follows him everywhere.
*
The lights turned off and never turned on. The darkness enshrouds him, and his lungs can’t take the pressure.
He wants to die.
*
Sometimes he feels like he’s floating. He must be dreaming then.
It’s a wonderful feeling.
*
He doesn’t remember why he’s there anymore.
In the darkness, he looks for an exit. His fingers find a notch which he assumes he can use to slide the wall open with.
He pulls.
It doesn’t budge.
He claws at the door until he can smell his own blood and his fingernails are chipped.
It seems his life is just one cosmic joke.
*
There are loud noises that are so momentary that he think he’s hallucinating.
It makes him laugh, because he probably is.
God, he wants to die so bad.
*
Why does he feel so cold?
*
The darkness is impenetrable.
His eyes see nothing. His ears hear nothing.
He feels nothing.
He wants to remember a semblance of what feeling is—was—so he laughs to himself to break darkness.
The darkness just laughs back at him.
*
He’s hanging onto the last strings of whatever he’s hanging onto.
He feels so weak.
He lets go.
*
“For…give me…Kigiku…We couldn’t see the sun together.”
*
Something ugly resonates in his mind. He knows his eyes are open, but blackness claims his vision.
He screams to drown out the voice.
He hopes he dies soon.
*
The words Zenitsu flash through the darkness like thunder.
He smiles.
That’s right, there was a boy named Zenitsu who loved the sun.
*
How much longer?
He’s really tired.