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“Just leave him,” Sanemi says. Snarls, more like. He’s a bit more prickly than he usually is and that’s saying something. He wears guilt like an ill-fitting coat; a foreign discomfort, pulled over him like a second skin, seams pulled taut and threatening to tear. Especially since, given that he completes his hunts at breakneck speed, he doesn’t typically see the longstanding consequences of his own actions.
Kyojuro, putting aside his own annoyance with the situation, takes a moment to eye him up and down briefly, checking for any wounds that would warrant immediate medical attention. Sanemi is plenty cut up and bloody, but it’s by his own design. The slayer is, by his own standards, perfectly fine. Kyojuro is willing to bet that he’s restlessly shifting from foot to foot not because he’s in pain- the man had the resilience of a grudge- but because of the appearance of their third companion, an unexpected party member whose presence made their hunt laughably easy. Namely, the effects his wounds have had on that third companion.
“…it wouldn’t be right,” Kyojuro finds himself saying, for some reason. Sanemi looks at him as though he’s grown a second head. Kyojuro does his best to swallow down the knee-jerk spike of irritation, doing its damnedest to try and turn itself into a headache.
“Look at him, he’s clearly not in his right mind,” he argues, gesturing towards their third. “It wouldn’t be right to leave anybody like this.”
Let alone a greater demon, he does not say. There’s not much worse that one can leave unsupervised than a drunk with the strength of a god. He should not have to say this so plainly, and yet.
Sanemi cringes visibly for one brief second, correcting himself that same instant with a frustrated sigh. To those who do not know him, it probably sounds like an angry growl. To Kyojuro, who does know him, it sounds like what it actually is: a failed attempt at venting the stress out of his body.
Akaza is. He’s not doing well, that much can be said with certainty. He’s not injured, no, not in any way that matters, but his pupils are blown wide and dark, his skin is flushed pink and feverish, and he’s a little sweaty.
It’s still new and peculiar, being able to see his pupils. Though at this point, Kyojuro has known him longer without the words upper three painted in delicate ink across them, the scars of the branding remained for some time after he had broken away from his kin, the same night he’d met him. Months later, they’ve all but disappeared, only the faintest hint of its outlines remaining. Kyojuro would know- Akaza hasn’t blinked once since it really started to take effect, nor has he taken his eyes off of him.
He’s quiet. It’s not normal for him to be quiet. He’s also given both of them a wide berth when normally he’d be hanging all over Kyojuro by now, whether he liked it or not. It’s worrisome in ways that Kyojuro doesn’t care to examine too closely.
Akaza is doing better than their quarry, at the very least. That said quarry is currently a bloody red smear on the ground is neither here nor there. Most of it ended up splattered all over Akaza anyway.
He tries not to grind his teeth over it. The demon wasn’t even supposed to be on this mission with them. It was a miracle, yes, how he was able to break the immovable yoke of Muzan’s tyranny over him in the name of refusing to murder the Flame Hashira, and yes, he did everything in his power to ensure Kyojuro’s survival once he had broken away, and yes, Kyojuro is very grateful that he did not in fact kill him in cold blood, but Akaza seemingly failed to understand why after so many months the corps would still keep him under surveillance, would still hold him to so many rules and standards that he still failed to follow, or even why Kyojuro could possibly still want to keep him at arm’s length after all of that.
A constant and reliable irritant is his peculiar ability to escape whatever bonds the slayer corps had put on him to join Kyojuro in the field, and really, he shouldn’t be surprised by this, but it certainly doesn’t stop him. Nor does it stop the headache forming behind his eyes at the thought of dealing with Akaza and Sanemi being within the same space as the other. He didn’t dislike either of them, but even as individuals, it was hard to get along with them on a good day. Together, though?
There were few things he’d rather experience less.
Despite Akaza seemingly appearing from nowhere to make quick work of his prior kinsman, Kyojuro is willing to bet that the once-favorite of Muzan has been skulking around for a good, long while. Probably has been doggedly trailing their every step since the beginning of this venture.
Well. Kyojuro’s every step, anyway. He doubts the demon is here for Sanemi. Akaza doesn’t show much interest in anything beyond Kyojuro, and that circle is apparently only barely wide enough to include his family, whom Akaza has mixed feelings about, and his tsuguko, whom Akaza claimed to detest but then would go out of his way to protect. There are no others included in that, least of all Sanemi. Kyojuro doesn’t imagine many demons appreciate the effects the hashira’s blood has on them when it causes them to be too dizzy and sluggish to fight back.
Akaza is doing a rather impressive job of staying upright, to be fair, even if he does wobble very noticeably. It’s a miracle he’s able to stand at all.
He attempts to take a step forward and ends up stumbling over nothing. He doesn’t fall, though; Kyojuro had been there to catch him before he could really think about it, and now, committed to his impulse decision, he slings the demon’s arm over his shoulders, to help him keep his balance. Akaza remains quiet, staring at him with wide, wet eyes and slow, languid blinks. Catlike, both in this and how readily he nestles into Kyojuro’s hold. He doesn’t quite go deadweight, but it’s close, and Kyojuro has to adjust himself quickly. Sanemi, rather predictably, is extremely unhappy with the proceedings, and makes his ire known quickly.
“So, what- we’re just supposed to take him with us to a safehouse now?” he snaps.
Kyojuro pauses.
There was an idea. As much as he despised the idea of having to navigate both of them daring to exist near the other, there was a petty, mean sort of satisfaction of forcing Sanemi to be the bigger person.
“...Well,” he starts, and no farther. Sanemi looks fit to be tied and Kyojuro hasn’t even finished a proper attempt to convince him yet. He probably doesn’t have to; the other slayer knows what he’s going to say. He also knows that Kyojuro is stubborn as a mule once he’s got his sights set on something. Sanemi only has one option left, really.
“Motherfucker-”
- - -
It’s a quick walk to the safehouse.
When Sanemi had attempted to convince Kyojuro to leave the demon behind, Kyojuro countered by telling Sanemi he could go to the safehouse if he wanted to, and Kyojuro would be more than happy to keep an eye on Akaza all by himself. In response to this, Sanemi, who both refused to leave his friends unguarded and would rather die than admit that they were friends to begin with, appeared to develop a sudden facial tic, and may or may not have howled like an animal at them when his words failed him. Grumbling neither subtly nor quietly, he began stomping in the general direction of their would-be lodgings, and away they went.
It’s an older building in an even older part of town, well-worn and well-cared for. It isn’t completely uniform, newer and cleaner in distinct patches scattered about the whole that has yellowed with age. The styles of its furnishings weren’t quite congruent with each other; there were attempts, certainly, to match as closely as possible, but function was clearly prized over form, here, and it shows.
Their hosts- an older couple and their adult children, running what is likely a doctor’s office or an apothecary out of their home- receive them graciously. The three of them are only given the mildest of confused looks, mostly directed at their third member. Mostly directed at his behavior, he’s relatively sure. Or possibly his numerous tattoos, or perhaps his… unorthodox choice of clothing. But the family within the wisteria house give them no trouble otherwise, despite the slayers’ typical entrance of arriving in the small hours of the morning with more than one of them greatly bloodied and one of them definitely needing stitches.
Two of their sons help Sanemi get patched up, and during that lengthy process- trying to patch up Sanemi was a bit like trying to take a cat to the vet, even at the best of times, and Kyojuro suspected they would need one or two more people to hold him down- Kyojuro gets to work on getting Akaza cleaned up.
While Sanemi has his
vet
doctor visit, Kyojuro immediately steers Akaza to the back porch of the large house, guided there by the lady of the house herself. He sits him down on a spare mat the madam lets him borrow, and Akaza, still very drunk and dripping with blood that isn’t his, lets him, for some reason. The demon has been strangely cooperative with all of this. Docile, even.
Kyojuro, once again acting on impulse, wraps his family’s haori around Akaza’s shoulders and tells him to stay put before scurrying off to the kitchens they’d passed on the way out the door, hoping to find a member of the large family that was awake and didn’t mind being bothered. He fears for the stains his haori would gain, but in truth, it would be no worse than what was already there, and worse things than blood have been cleaned from it. Better that than Akaza feel alone or abandoned; he’s heard enough horror stories from Tanjiro framed as endearing anecdotes about his adorable sister, has witnessed it for himself enough times to know better, about what happens when Nezuko awakens and her brother is not there.
It gets ugly fast.
Thankfully, he locates both a bucket and a rag, and returns minutes later with a very full bucket of warm water.
It felt. Rude, to show up in the middle of the night and immediately stain their washroom red, so he decides it would be a little more prudent to at least get some of the viscera off of the demon before taking him there proper. So, Kyojuro swiftly wipes him down, attempting to get the worst of it off before it becomes clear that he can go no further, and has to give up. Akaza, for his part, retains that strange docility. He doesn’t do much more than watch Kyojuro, and do as Kyojuro tells him to do.
When Akaza is just clean enough to warrant being allowed back into the house, Kyojuro makes the decision to finally take a look at his poor haori.
It’s not exactly drenched with blood, but he wouldn’t call it dry, either. It’s also not as white as it used to be, but he suspects using the now-murky, distinctly red-tinted water leftover in the bucket would likely only make things worse. Kyojuro sighs deeply; he’ll have to ask the host family about it tomorrow.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Akaza says quietly. Kyojuro blinks, a little surprised that he’d spoken at all.
Now, rationally, Kyojuro knows why he did it. But saying the words “I didn’t want you to get lonely” sounds a bit different outside his own head. So instead, he replies with:
“I didn’t want you to get cold,” he says. Which is. Nonsense, clearly. They were well into spring, now, with summer closer than not. Winter’s frigid touch had been gone long enough to forget how it lingers upon the body, and besides that- Akaza is a demon. He’s not going to catch sick from the cold, whatever little there was to be had, now.
Akaza tilts his head at him. Questioning.
“It’s just cloth,” Kyojuro says. “It can be washed.”
Akaza doesn’t say anything. Just stares at him, wet, molten gold glimmering in the dim glow of the light shining from the house. He thinks there’s something akin to a furtive hope there, but for what, Kyojuro doesn’t know.
- - -
Bathing Akaza is uneventful.
At first Kyojuro was just going to leave him to his own devices while he briskly scrubbed himself down, but Akaza just sits there and curls in on himself, and then Kyojuro is a little paranoid that the demon is overheating, somehow, and elects to speed up the bathing process. The demon is still flush, still sweaty, and Kyojuro can no longer tell if it’s the heat of the bathwater or the lingering effects of Sanemi’s blood. It’s hard to say; Akaza learned the hard way that cutting himself off from his master had also cut himself off from the farther extremes of his regeneration. He still had it of course, but it was slower, sluggish even, and in that first terrifying moment of separation, it was unclear whether he had it at all, Muzan’s final punishment very nearly killing him. If it weren’t for the quick action of both Kamado children, he probably would have.
Akaza does not do anything without Kyojuro’s say-so; he does not move, he does not raise his head, not a single finger without the slayer’s explicit instruction. But move he does, when Kyojuro does give that word. The slayer doesn’t know whether to be thankful or concerned. He doesn’t have enough energy for either. So he finishes bathing himself, and then moves right to washing Akaza’s hair for him. The demon leans into his hands so much that he nearly knocks both of them over. Kyojuro would think it was cute if it wasn’t four in the morning and he wasn’t trying to get the both of them clean, fed, and in bed before dawn.
He gets sleepclothes onto the both of them, somehow, and he’s partway through very, very carefully explaining to their hostess the particulars of their companion’s very specialized dietary needs before the hostess smirks wryly at him and says, “So he’s not human, then?” and Kyojuro sputters to a stop.
When he fails to reply with actual, coherent words, she continues with, “Honey, you’re far from the first person to be running around with a demon,” and Kyojuro just gawks at her. She goes quiet and thoughtful for a moment or so before electing to continue again.
“Now, I know you folk get real skittish about it, so it doesn’t happen often,” she explains. “But my family’s been running this house since the Sengoku period. There’s been more than a few of you trying to house-train demons without anybody finding out.” Kyojuro’s thoughts immediately fly to Tanjiro, wondering if he’d passed through here before.
“First time I’ve heard of a hashira trying it, though,” the hostess says, putting a gnarled, bony hand to her jaw, eyeing him up. Pinning him in place like an insect to corkboard. “Most of the time, it’s starry-eyed youngbloods who haven’t been at it long enough to know any better. Works better than you think it would, though.” She pauses.
“Well. Until it doesn’t,” she says, shrugging. Catching herself, she tells him, “You’ll be fine, hon. Looks like you got him plenty trained already.” Kyojuro chokes on nothing, and she chuckles at him. Distantly, there’s a pained yell followed by a barely stifled string of swears not meant to be heard by human ears. Something about popped stitches? Sanemi’s doctor visit must be going well, then.
“Ah. I’d watch out for your other friend, though,” she tells him. She motions for him to lean in and tells him conspiratorially, “Between you and me, when house-training stopped working, it wasn’t because they started eating people again. It was because somebody ratted on them, more often than not. Turns out it’s real easy to piss off a demon if you get between them and their favorite.”
“I am. Aware,” he manages to say. It wasn’t as if Akaza was the only demon he’d come across with a favorite, as she said. Granted, that number was miniscule, but the fact that it happened at all, let alone twice- it was too uncannily similar for it not to be related.
Nezuko Kamado rising from the trunk her brother forever carried on his back and glowering at Sanemi with nothing but a burning, murderous fury in her eyes isn’t something he’s soon to forget. Nor will he forget his first mission partnered with the young slayers that were soon to be his tsuguko; on the train, Nezuko emerging from her slumber at the first sniff of her brother in danger, how quickly she set their bindings aflame, how she set herself to ravaging everything that came within spitting distance of her brother with no hesitation, no remorse- how violently she tore them apart.
Akaza doesn’t act all that much different than Nezuko, really; he’s just more efficient.
“He’s under my supervision,” Kyojuro manages to grit out. He is, technically, but Akaza was supposed to remain with Tanjiro and the others to help train them while Kyojuro was away. He probably ran off to find him, which means his tsuguko aren’t far behind. Great.
“You’ll be fine, then,” the hostess tells him again, with a few hearty slaps on the back. “Anyway, don’t worry about feeding him. We always make sure to have something for everybody.”
With that, she wanders back off towards the kitchen, leaving Kyojuro standing in the doorway of the guest room.
“Alright then,” Kyojuro says, a little at a loss.
- - -
Kyojuro had been afraid, initially, of what the hostess had in mind in terms of food for Akaza. He didn’t quite know what to expect, and honestly, given the usual fare for demons, he had. Concerns. Over where she would procure such a thing. And what that thing even would be. Terrifying is the human propensity for evil in the name of good intentions. He’d seen it far too many times to remain ignorant to it.
And when the hostess had entered their room, there were a few terrifying moments where he thought what he had feared had proven true, as she strolled in carrying a tray bearing multiple plates, some with actual food, and some with various organs of mysterious origin upon them. He didn’t recognize them for what they were at first, and then when he did, a very real, very visceral dread streaked through him. The shock must’ve shown on his face, as then the hostess rolled her eyes and said, “Calm down. We’re friends with the rancher down the road.”
“Oh,” he replied, feeling rather foolish. He takes the tray from her and begins placing Akaza’s meal in front of him.
“And the undertaker,” she adds nonchalantly. The slayer whips his head around to look at her so fast that he actually pulls something in his neck. The hostess laughs, something raspy and mean.
“I’m kidding,” she says.
“Ma’am,” Kyojuro starts, respectful but still with an edge to his voice.
“Oh, shush,” she replies, waving a dismissive hand at him. “You young people can’t take a joke nowadays.” She’s still laughing, her tone jovial, but some part of him still cannot discard the paranoid, lingering thought that she is absolutely not joking.
“Don’t make a mess,” she warns, another wry smile on her lips. And then she leaves them to their supper. Kyojuro lets out a ragged sigh.
“That’s enough excitement for one day, I think,” he says with a tired laugh, looking to the demon sitting next to him. Akaza doesn’t say anything. Just stares at him.
Kyojuro takes what’s meant to be a deep, calming breath. The results are lackluster.
Still, he must persist. So, he finishes setting up their plates, and hands off the second set of chopsticks to Akaza. Utensils were still a thing they were working on; the demon allegedly had no memory of using them to eat and could be rather clumsy with them, but this apparently didn’t count for the handful of occasions he actually volunteered to cook, in which case he instead had a deft expertise with them, despite again, having no memory of using them whatsoever. Kyojuro had a hard time believing him at first, but in such instances, Akaza would go quiet and distant, much like he did at this moment. Kyojuro knows better, now, not to doubt the terrible things that had been done to the former moon, and what things had been taken from him.
Akaza only takes the utensils after Kyojuro presses them into his hands. That’s. Definitely not good, but the definition of “good” was neither here nor there, presently. A former upper moon is currently fall-over drunk and a hashira is getting his stitches redone for likely the second or third time that night a few rooms away. Whatever they were now, he certainly wouldn’t call it “good.”
“Now, I know it’s not what we usually get for you to eat,” Kyojuro starts, winding up the sales pitch. The usual menu consists almost entirely of bone broth, white rice, and Kyojuro’s blood. They were a little afraid of branching out too much; prior attempts at human food had failed pretty spectacularly. He’s cleaned up Akaza’s vomit far more than he’d ever thought he would.
It wasn’t the worst. Wasn’t too different from cleaning up after his Father at home, honestly. At least he didn’t have to hold back Akaza’s hair.
“But I think you need something a little more substantial right now since you’re so out of sorts,” he finishes. And again, Akaza is content to merely watch him silently. Kyojuro runs a hand down his face.
“Akaza,” he starts. “You need to eat. If- if you don’t like it, we can try something else. But you’ll feel better after you eat. I promise.”
The demon’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something thoughtful there, now. Wordlessly, he picks up one of the organs- part of a liver, maybe- and delicately places a tiny piece of it in his mouth with the chopsticks. His chewing is slow, but he’s chewing at least. Still watching Kyojuro, though. The slayer hopes that Akaza wouldn’t rather be eating him, instead. Demons were rather odd in their affections, he’s learned, and occasionally, it was unclear if what Akaza felt for him was fondness or hunger.
The once-moon prized Kyojuro’s blood over everything else. This included the blood of his “darling apprentices,” Akaza often called them with a sneer, who he first said, with a look so contemptuous it was as though the mere idea of it was a moral offense, were “too young” to be fed upon. A strange line in the sand to draw, Kyojuro thinks; murder is still murder, flesh is still flesh, but it was some kind of standard, he supposed. Of course, before he had the chance to point this out, Akaza corrected himself, saying instead, “They have yet to age sufficiently. Better to be patient for the vintage than settle for swill, no?”
The effort with which he said this is forced, and obvious. The smirk accompanying his words didn’t reach his eyes, his posture graceless and stiff. His tsuguko reacted loudly, of course, Zenitsu especially, but Kyojuro didn’t buy it, and neither did Tanjiro.
To his own family, Akaza said the same about Senjuro in much the same way. Too young, too frail. And his father?
Akaza’s reaction was. Strange, to say the least. Discordant with itself. Too rank, too foul, he said, mouth curled upwards in a cutting sneer but eyes distant, worried. It’s shortly after this that all the liquor in the house slowly began to disappear.
So highly did the demon hold his blood, that it was- allegedly- without comparison. Even- even over the flesh of other humans, apparently. Kyojuro had fed him once- just once, he’d like to stress- in a bid to prevent him from seeking his next meal, and apparently it’d been so successful that it purged Akaza of the compulsion to eat living flesh. The nectar of the gods, Akaza had called it, and he’d been so keen to tell Kyojuro this, and thank him for his generosity, and shamelessly beg for more, just like a spoiled dog, and. And.
The slayer has the very troubling realization that he is very much ready and willing to spill a few drops of his own blood into Akaza’s food any time at all if that’s what it took to get him to eat. Not just to not eat human beings- just to eat, in general. When had that happened?
Like mixing an egg into a dog’s dinner, he thought hysterically.
That’s- that’s going to be a tomorrow problem, he decides. His own set of strange compulsions aren’t really important right now.
Akaza continues to eat, working his way through his meal placidly and without complaint. It’s worrying, still, how slowly he eats, but Kyojuro tamps down on the urge to nag at him for it. It’s not as though Father or Senjuro appreciated it when he did that while they were having a difficult time, and he doesn’t think Akaza would, either.
“Good,” he says, anyway. Compelled to say something. “That’s good. Just eat what you can, alright?”
Akaza blinks at him slowly, openly confused at Kyojuro’s words. That’s alright, Kyojuro is confused, too. Akaza swallows.
“...Alright,” he says after a moment. He lets the subject drop.
Kyojuro has never been so embarrassed or grateful in his entire life.
- - -
When they finish eating, Kyojuro gathers up the dishes, places them back on the tray, and is about to take them back to the kitchen- seems the polite thing to do- when something tugs on the back of his clothes.
“Don’t go,” Akaza asks, near-silent. Plaintive. Kyojuro turns his head to look at him, befuddled.
In the handful of seconds Kyojuro wasn’t looking at him, the demon’s golden eyes have resumed their previous disproportionate size and are now wet with unshed tears. Kyojuro wasn’t aware that it was in the capacity of an (ex) upper moon to be a clingy, weepy drunk, but here they were.
“Akaza, I’m not leaving, I’m just taking the dishes to the kitchen,” he explains patiently. Akaza’s hand tightens around the fabric clenched in his fist. Father is like this, sometimes. So were some of his compatriots, if a hunt had gone especially poorly. He knows how to handle this.
“Please don’t go,” Akaza asks again, louder, but words a little slurred together. He’s taking an awfully long time to process the intoxication effects. Was this the fault of Sanemi, or was this the fault of his former master, punishing him even now for his betrayal?
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, knowing when the battle’s lost. “Just let me get the dishes out of the way so I can make the beds.”
Akaza regards him not with suspicion but with a distant fear, reluctant to let go.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Kyojuro assures him. “I’m just putting the tray by the door, alright? I will be right in this room the whole time.”
The comfort Akaza gets from this is meager but it’s just enough to loosen his fingers; the clothing slowly slips from his grasp, and Kyojuro is free to walk the tray to the door and place it just to the side of it, as he promised. Then, he walks to where the futon bedding is folded up nearby and proceeds to unroll it for all three of them. He takes Akaza by the hand and guides him to the bed on the right, somehow managing to persuade him to sit, even if he doesn’t settle down just yet. Kyojuro makes the decision to situate himself into the middle bed, to avoid any further petty conflict. As he finishes placing the covers on Sanemi’s bed on the left, and settles down in his own bed, Akaza speaks up again.
“Why are you doing this?”
Kyojuro pauses.
The words are soft. So soft he almost can’t hear. This is. Troubling.
To clarify, he asks, “...Why am I making the beds?” knowing it sounds foolish when said out loud. Akaza shakes his head.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” he asks instead. His voice is beginning to quaver.
Oh dear, Kyojuro thinks. The surprise causes him to falter for a moment, and this may have been a mistake, because Akaza begins crumbling in the scarce few moments it takes him to reply.
“You’re not feeling well, and you need help,” he says simply. His words, hopefully, aren’t nearly so unsettled as he feels. “So I’m helping you. That’s all.” The demon’s expression shutters, wounded, crystal clear droplets beginning to gather at the ends of his long, petal-soft eyelashes. Kyojuro’s stomach starts churning as anxiety begins to pool there more and more.
“You don’t have to do that,” Akaza says lowly. “I know you don’t like me.” The demon’s words stun Kyojuro where he numbly sits, the small space between their unmoving forms yawning wider and wider, and oh, he realizes, he’s been acting like an asshole.
In the face of his non-answer, Akaza continues.
“No, I know. It’s alright,” he says, voice curiously devoid of emotion, even as it threatens to break. “I’ve seen how you look at the people you care about, and how you look at me. I’m not. I’m not stupid. It’s obvious you don’t like me. I’m not your friend, I’m just something you have to deal with. You don’t have to give me special treatment now because you feel obligated to.”
Kyojuro remains frozen in time, speechless. What is he meant to say, in the face of this? True, the once-moon’s antics made things difficult on occasion, but.
“Akaza,” he tries. But the demon carries on.
“No, it’s alright, Kyojuro,” he insists. “I’m not expecting you to like me. Just- just being around you is enough. That’s all I want. I’m not asking for anything from you in return.”
Words fail him, still, caught in his throat as the demon spills his innermost thoughts.
“You don’t… you don’t need to be so kind to me. I don’t deserve it,” Akaza says, tears beginning to spill down his face. Words slurring. “You’ve already done so much for me. Just… Just let me repay you. You don’t have to do anything else.” He starts tilting forward, hiding his face.
“Akaza,” Kyojuro tries again.
“Just let me keep you safe,” Akaza murmurs, and Kyojuro has to strain to hear him. “You’re all I have.”
“Akaza, look at me,” Kyojuro tells him, pleading. His hands are on Akaza’s shoulders, keeping him upright. When did that happen?
“Akaza, I don’t,” he starts, struggling. What is he meant to say?
This is not how he thought the night would go. Hell, this isn’t how he thought a lot of things in his life would go, least of all this. He did not think his mother would pass so suddenly. He didn’t think his father would plummet into grief and drink afterwards. He didn’t think the lives of so many of his comrades would slip through his fingers.
It wasn’t all uniformly terrible, though. He didn’t know he’d meet the Kamados, or their friends. He didn’t think he’d ever meet a demon as doting and familial as Nezuko. He didn’t think he’d ever meet another demon who’d decide to do the same.
He wasn’t even sure that he would live this long, let alone that the creature that nearly killed him would not only have a change of heart, but swear fealty to him.
He’s tired. He’s so, so tired, and this is so much. But he cannot just leave it where it lies now. No matter how difficult it is to admit.
“Akaza, I don’t dislike you,” he tells him, probably a little more grudgingly than he intends. It feels like pulling teeth to admit. “We may not always get along, I may not always agree with you, but.” He swallows. Why is this so difficult? It should not be this difficult.
“You’re my friend,” Kyojuro manages to spit out, finally. “I do… I do care about you. I want you to be alright.” Akaza collapses into him.
Kyojuro thinks- he’s not sure, the words are slurred in the demon’s lingering drunkenness and further muffled in the cloth of his yukata- he thinks Akaza says, “You’re so precious to me.”
A strange, erratic heat flickers under his skin at these words, and he thinks maybe it’s embarrassment but he isn’t sure. Akaza shudders in his arms, and Kyojuro shushes him gently.
“I know,” Kyojuro tells him. “It’s alright. You’re important to me, too.” He draws him further into his arms, tucking Akaza’s head into the crook of his neck and stroking his hair. The demon nuzzles into the bare skin there gratefully, sniffling. The scent of him should help ground him, Kyojuro thinks. It’s- it’s what he’s been led to believe, anyway, watching both Akaza and Nezuko shamelessly pilfer the belongings of everyone within their little circle without regret or remorse. Sometimes, he will even catch one or both of them nesting like magpies, brooding over their stolen treasures, and if any one of them are particularly unlucky, their favorites.
“Don’t go,” Akaza mumbles, nearly incomprehensible. “Don’t leave me.” It appears they have reached the part of the night where sobriety is too far off, still, but exhaustion is beginning to take over, fully. It should be easier to put him to bed like this in theory, but he clings to Kyojuro like he does truly fear his leaving. It’s heartbreaking to witness.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Kyojuro tells him patiently. Akaza sniffs again, hiccuping, and Kyojuro, once again, is there to shush him gently and stroke his hair.
Akaza keeps mumbling the words into his neck, softer and softer until the words are soundless, and all Kyojuro can hear is the breath it takes to say them, and all he can feel are Akaza’s lips brushing feather-light against his skin. The erratic heat of before crackles louder and brighter, but he dutifully ignores it, concentrating only on Akaza’s comfort until the demon finally, finally drifts to sleep in his arms.
Kyojuro sighs, coaxing Akaza’s sleeping form into his own bed, and this is about when Sanemi appears in the open doorway of the guest room, his gobsmacked expression apparent even in the lightless dim of the hours before dawn. Oops.
“Kyojuro, what the fuck was that,” he hisses at him hysterically. Kyojuro shushes him.
“I just got him to sleep,” he says, absolutely not addressing what Sanemi was saying, at all. He can take care of Akaza, or he can take the time to untangle the knotted mess of his own feelings, not both. Obviously, physical health warranting medical attention (or at least caretaking) takes priority. He can just put it off indefinitely, if he has to, and perhaps he will, purposefully not looking over the edge of the cliff of that particular unknown, steep and fathomless. Much too intimidating a prospect to be confronting now, or maybe ever.
The other slayer’s eyes bug out of his head. He opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to come up with something to say and failing, and honestly, mister “had to get stitches put in him no less than twice in the same night” has a lot of nerve, acting like Kyojuro is the one who’s being ridiculous.
Kyojuro sighs at him a little grumpily, and the frayed cord of Sanemi’s already thin patience snaps.
“Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” he tells Kyojuro in a dire threat of a whisper. Normally, Kyojuro found it endearing when Sanemi’s buried familial instincts clawed out of the shallow grave he’d dumped them in, but he didn’t quite appreciate the lecturing tone, now. Two can play at that game, and Kyojuro is much more practiced. He shoots Sanemi a withering look. The other slayer huffs at him irritably.
“Just tell me this,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Did you mean what you said?”
Kyojuro thinks for a moment.
He glances down to Akaza sleeping beside him, still close enough to touch. The fey thing had nuzzled his nose into the side of Kyojuro’s thigh, the paling ray of moonlight streaming through the window painting his grey skin silver and shining.
“...I guess I do,” he replies, surprised with himself, and still, still does that curious warmth linger, stretching out under his skin, cozy and content even as it quickens his pulse. Sanemi groans but doesn’t challenge him on it.
“Could you make sure the windows are closed and the curtains are fully drawn? I can’t get up,” Kyojuro asks. The other slayer doesn’t roll his eyes so much as he rolls his entire head, but he strides to each of the windows and does as Kyojuro asks, grumbling along the way. What little light there is in the room snuffs out, and the ensuing dark is gentle and deep. It pulls at his eyelids and bids him sleep, the shadows blanketing him in the inky, tranquil quiet of the hours past midnight.
“Thank you,” Kyojuro tells him, yawning suddenly. Sanemi attempts to huff at him again, but he just ends up yawning, too.
"Yeah, whatever," he sneers, but the effect is lost in the yawn. "As long as you know what you're doing." Kyojuro smiles at him tiredly, and while it cannot be seen in the dark, he has a feeling Sanemi knows, anyway.
Kyojuro lets himself lay down, finally. He lets himself stretch and curl under the comforter until he's able to settle down, at last. He never could sit still until he knew everyone in the house was safe and in bed, and Sanemi, finally changing to his sleepclothes, gives him the sense of ease he needed to fall asleep. Exhaustion piles onto him all at once, and he finds he can't quite keep his eyes open.
He thinks he says goodnight, his words are in his head, are on his tongue, but he cannot recall if they ever left his mouth, nor if Sanemi replied. Sleep is a swift harvestman, and all it takes is his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of moments for it to claim him.
His dreams are quiet and deep.
- - -
Kyojuro doesn't actually get all that much sleep, of course.
He's at least partially aware of the moment in the night when Akaza burrows under his covers and glues himself to Kyojuro's side, awoken by Akaza's shivering and the unnatural cold of his body. There's some part of him that reflexively twitches towards wakefulness every time Sanemi, being the restless sleeper that he is, tosses and turns and flails his limbs. Kyojuro remembers having the distinct thought, He's going to pop his stitches again, but he does not remember when it occurred.
He wakes up fully the first time when the lady of the house comes to get their dinner plates first thing in the morning, and the rush of air from the door opening has his eyes snapping open in turn. He probably would have sat up right that minute if not for the demon-shaped weighted blanket pinning him in place. The hostess gives a silent apology for waking him, her eyes twinkling with mirth, and it takes him a good while to fall asleep again. The sun is pale but present, then. It must have only just crested the horizon.
He wakes up a second time to the door opening again, this time to a rather determined Nezuko Kamado attempting to enter the room, much to the distress of her brother directly behind her.
"No, Nezuko, let them sleep," Tanjiro whispers pleadingly, and barely manages to wrestle her away from the door, closing it slightly too loudly behind them. The light, though heavily filtered, is warm and golden. They must have just arrived.
When he wakes again for the third and final time, it's to a chorus of screams from his beloved tsuguko, presumably rough-housing just outside the door.
Akaza groans under the comforter, and just snuggles further into Kyojuro's side, burying his face in his chest and tugging the blanket up and over his head.
"Make them go away," Akaza grumbles.
Thankfully, Kyojuro doesn't have to; one of them makes the mistake of opening the door, and now that the full impact of their sound has invaded the space, Sanemi is up like a jack knife, hurling his pillow and nailing Zenitsu in the head. Zenitsu shrieks and takes off somewhere into the house, and Sanemi must have a prey drive or something similar, because the moment the boy turns to run, Sanemi is out of bed and in hot pursuit, shouting insults and curses along the way. Kyojuro won't complain; now they'll be upset with him, instead.
"Why are they even here," Akaza complains, relaxing some now that the source of the noise has fled elsewhere. Kyojuro lifts up the cover with the arm that isn't pinned under Akaza and gives the demon an unimpressed look. Akaza hisses, flinching at the light.
"Put that back," he whines. "My head is pounding." Kyojuro doesn't, and Akaza withdraws further into his makeshift cocoon.
"You know," Kyojuro starts, taking care to keep his voice low. "The kids probably wouldn't be here making such a ruckus if you had stayed and trained with them, like I asked you to." The demon harrumphs at him.
"You probably wouldn't have a hangover, either," he adds.
"You just called them your kids," Akaza teases. Kyojuro can practically hear the smirk in his voice. He regards the pathetic creature clinging to him.
Mercilessly, Kyojuro tears the comforter off the both of them, much to Akaza's loud, agonized protests.
"Calm down. None of the curtains are even open," Kyojuro tells him coolly. The demon whines at him exaggeratedly.
"It's cold," he complains piteously. "And my head hurts. How do you humans even deal with this?" Kyojuro chuckles under his breath, though he does replace the blanket when he sees Akaza shivering. Akaza takes that as permission to make himself comfortable, and wiggles back up to hide his face in Kyojuro's neck. The slayer becomes acutely aware of the demon's mouth pressed feather-light to the skin there, and remembers all at once the shape of the words pressed there before.
It wasn't as if he'd forgotten the night before. Not when it was hardly hours ago. But the strange heat curling beneath the surface of his skin certainly felt different and more, now that Akaza is fully awake and conscious of his actions. Kyojuro doesn't know what it even means.
Akaza, perhaps somehow sensing Kyojuro's internal turmoil, does what he does best, and elects to make things worse in a way that is entirely unexpected.
"You were gone longer than you said you would be," Akaza grumbles. Any ire present in those words is half-hearted, at best. "The kids were getting worried. So I came to check on you once they went to bed."
"Now whose kids are they," Kyojuro teases, voice unsteady. Akaza moves so that Kyojuro can see his face out of the corner of his eye. He's very much unamused, or at least trying to be, but Kyojuro swears he can see a smile trying to form.
"Yours, obviously," Akaza says matter-of-factly. And again, he's trying to be unamused, unimpressed, but he can't seem to stop the grin on his face. Warmth slowly and inescapably seeps through Kyojuro's body, ink spilled on parchment, and when he does not respond, Akaza continues.
"I was worried, too," he says, settling back down. And then, the words once again pressed to Kyojuro's skin as though uttering a prayer, "I missed you."
There's a distant, playful shriek somewhere else in the house, and the mad cackle of laughter afterwards. Kyojuro isn't sure if it's Inosuke, or Sanemi. It doesn't quite ruin the mood, but it does make it lighter. Cozier.
"...I guess they're mine, too," Akaza says, yawning. Kyojuro knows his eyes have closed when he feels the flutter of eyelashes upon his skin, and knows that Akaza has started to drift off again when his breath becomes slow and even. When it's been a few minutes, and Kyojuro is relatively sure that Akaza sleeps once more, he says, very, very lowly, "I missed you, too."
Akaza, without missing a beat, despite being mostly asleep and barely able to slur out the words, replies, "Did you miss me enough to let me have your blood for breakfast?"
Nevermind. Kyojuro is going to kill him.