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The sky still has a muted orange glow to it when Akaza arrives at the Wind Hashira estate just after sunset.
“Hey! Shithead! Who said you could come over here?!” Sanemi shouts across the yard.
Akaza doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a response but Sanemi flies towards him at breakneck speed and the air sings with the swing of his sword. Before he can react, Akaza sees his own two detached legs careening onto the gravel and his back hits the ground with a thud.
“I broke the curse, you moron! I can move freely now without putting you all at risk!” Akaza yells back, trying with no small effort to control his temper. He’s finally on good terms with the Corps since breaking Muzan’s curse and agreeing to be Miss Tamayo’s little test subject. He can’t fuck this up. He has to be the bigger person, even if the Wind Hashira makes it extremely challenging to do so.
“Right, right, and how’d you do that? Rengoku fuck the curse outta you or what?” Sanemi barks.
Akaza snaps. He regenerates his legs and pounces towards Sanemi before he can finish blinking, scattering gravel in his wake.
Sanemi charges at him, leaps into the air, and draws a deep breath “Wind breathing, fifth form: cold mountain wind.”
It’s all too easy to block Sanemi’s attack. They’ve never fought before; as a former Upper Moon, Akaza has an undeniable advantage. He dislodges the sword from his forearm and ducks just as Sanemi is about to use another form. He drops to the ground and swings his leg out, intending to trip Sanemi, but this feral freak has already dodged it.
“You’re fast!—” Akaza spins on his heel, and Sanemi’s sword is inches from his face. In the blink of an eye, he deflects it and slams his knuckle against the flat part of the blade, shattering it, “—but not fast enough.”
“Akaza! Don’t provoke him.”
Kyojuro stands in the pathway of the Wind Hashira’s perfectly manicured minimalist garden.
“Don’t let him get to you. He’s like that with everyone,” says Kyojuro.
Sanemi’s head whips around and he’s practically growling like a dog when he stomps over to Kyojuro.
“I don’t remember inviting you either, Rengoku. Care to explain yourself?”
“We’re here on official business!” Kyojuro says confidently, flashing a polite smile despite Sanemi’s aggressive attitude.
“And what business is that?!” Sanemi looks him up and down, sizing him up. Kyojuro’s smile doesn’t falter. He must be an expert in dealing with this nonsense because Akaza is barely able to stop himself from yanking Sanemi by the hair and hurling him so far into the horizon that he lands in a different country.
“Calm down! There is no need to be so hostile!” Kyojuro exclaims brightly.
Wrong choice of words.
Sanemi draws back his fist. Time slows. Kyojuro’s eyes dart to Akaza’s, a silent warning. Akaza’s nails dig into the skin of his palm so hard that it draws blood.
Kyojuro slaps Sanemi’s fist out of the way… and headbutts him.
“I learned that one from young Kamado!”
Sanemi staggers back, grumbling. His bloodshot eyes appear ready to pop out of his skull.
“Our peers can teach us a lot, Shinazugawa, no matter their age, or what their background is!”
A raised red mark is already forming on Sanemi’s forehead. He attempts to shake off the dizziness.
“Akaza has lived for hundreds of years! His experience in hand-to-hand combat is the best the Corps has ever seen! He is here to start training our fellow Corps members!” Kyojuro’s unwavering determination to diffuse the argument seems to irritate Sanemi even more, because each word is louder than the next as he replies, “I don’t give a fuck how old that demon is!”
“That language is really not appropriate in this setting!”
“Fuck you! Go somewhere else!”
“We are under direct orders from Oyakata-sama! You have the best space for the task!”
Sanemi looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust. He lunges forward, grabbing the collar of Kyojuro’s shirt so forcefully that the top button pops off. In one swift motion, Kyojuro grabs hold of Sanemi's wrist, twists his body, and slams him onto the ground. Basic move, flawless execution.
Oh.
Akaza feels something twitch in his pants. He doesn’t realize how loud his breathing is until Kyojuro looks up at him. Kyojuro’s smile falls from his face, “are you alright?” He mouths. He glances down at Akaza’s crotch, then back up, then back down again. Sanemi is still on the floor, flabbergasted, no doubt winded.
“That is one of Akaza’s techniques,” Kyojuro says, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. “He is a surprisingly good teacher. Don’t forget, we’re all on the same side.” Kyojuro’s tone is more serious this time. Desire stirs in Akaza’s abdomen. Oh god. He has to calm down.
Sanemi snaps up, refusing to admit defeat “I don’t wanna learn whatever the fuck he’s teaching you… Rengo….. ku… WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!”
The collar of Kyojuro’s shirt falls open, revealing last night’s “mistake” on his collarbone. It is very clearly a human bite mark except there’s two noticeably larger holes in the imprint.
Akaza shifts his weight, the metal of Sanemi’s destroyed sword clinking under his feet.
Sanemi slowly turns to face Akaza. “You…” he snarls. Sanemi’s face is so red he can practically feel the heat radiating off of it.
“It was a different demon!” Kyojuro offers. It does nothing to help the situation. He’s so bad at lying it hurts.
For a moment, Akaza almost doesn’t know what to do. He can’t kill him but he also can’t stomach the thought of Sanemi beating the ever-loving shit out of him either, especially not in front of Kyojuro. He assumes a fighting stance and his compass needle glows to life beneath his feet.
“You wanna die, demon?” Sanemi growls, grinning maniacally.
“Akaza stop! Don’t do anything you’ll regret!” Kyojuro shouts.
“Don’t worry, Kyojuro!” Akaza says sweetly, “I’ll go easy on him.”
That’s apparently Sanemi’s last straw.
“I will EVISCERATE YOU”
“That’s enough!” Kyojuro shouts.
In a blur of red flames, he’s standing firmly between Akaza and Sanemi, hand on the hilt of his sword. “We are not allowed to attack other corps members, or have you forgotten, Shinazugawa?” Akaza remembers the story of how Sanemi fought Kyojuro when they first met. Kyojuro had refused to fight back then, citing the same reasons as now.
“He’s a DEMON,” Sanemi yells, inches from Kyojuro’s face.
Kyojuro stands his ground. “That is correct. However, he fights for our cause. His contributions have been invaluable to us and therefore he has been exonerated by Oyakata-sama… You cannot fight him.” He turns to face Akaza, his voice softer now, “That goes for you too, Akaza.” Their eyes meet. The rage that had threatened to boil over simmers down. He gives Kyojuro a slight nod.
Sanemi groans as if it physically pains him to resist murdering the both of them. He shoves Kyojuro to the side, bumping Akaza’s shoulder as he moves past him too, and bends down to pick the pieces of his sword out of the gravel.
“Control your fucking demon, Rengoku. I don’t want to think about what you two have been doing behind closed doors. Keep that shit away from me or I’ll kill ‘im”.
“I’m afraid what I do in my own home is none of your business, Shinazugawa!”
“Or who he does…” Akaza mutters under his breath.
Sanemi stiffens, “What the hell did you just say you little shit?”
“ALRIGHT!” Kyojuro interjects, “Shinazugawa, we will get written permission to use your facilities before we come back here. Alternatively, we will find a more suitable location.” He gives Sanemi a polite bow. Akaza thinks the Wind Hashira really is full of nothing but hot air, and he knows he’s walking on eggshells, but he can’t bring himself to bend his head to such an imbecile. Kyojuro shoots him a disapproving look as they turn to leave.
Akaza is closing the gate when Kyojuro grabs him by the arm and jerks him closer.
“What were you thinking?” Kyojuro hisses.
“He attacked me. What was I supposed to do?”
Kyojuro lets go of his arm and glances down. Akaza is hard again.
“I’m going to submit a request to have a Corps uniform made for you,” Kyojuro remarks. He turns away from Akaza sharply. “Those white pants leave nothing to the imagination.”
He’s scary when he’s irritated. It’s so attractive.
“Why? Do you wanna imagine something, Kyojuro?” Akaza simpers.
“I’m not very pleased with you, Akaza. I don’t want to play this game right now.” Kyojuro says. He looks straight ahead as they walk down the road away from the Wind Hashira estate.
Akaza hums. “What are you doing later, then?”
Kyojuro ignores him. His shirt is still open at the top and Akaza can’t seem to tear his eyes away from his neck and chest.
Kyojuro must feel Akaza’s gaze on him because he glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. Akaza winks at him. It makes Kyojuro laugh at the end of an exhale before he quickly recomposes himself, setting his expression back to neutral and going quiet again.
There’s no light on the path, save for the fireflies and stars, as they make their way back to the Rengoku estate. With Muzan’s eyes no longer able to see into Akaza’s mind, he’s been staying with Kyojuro. Now the only eyes he has to avoid are Shinjuro Rengoku’s. How a father could ever treat his son the way he does is beyond Akaza’s comprehension. It’s infuriating to Akaza in a way he can’t even understand. Kyojuro made him swear not to kill his father on sight, though it’s unlikely he’ll ever meet him in the first place. The man only ever leaves his room to buy sake.
The old wooden gate at the entrance to the Rengoku estate creaks as Kyojuro pushes it open. Akaza reaches out his hand to touch Kyojuro’s shoulder, but he swats it away without even looking at him.
“Go inside. I have to check on my father.” He says curtly.
Akaza can’t help the shit-eating grin that creeps onto his face. Familiar with the space, he bounds straight over to Kyojuro’s room without saying anything else to provoke him.
He slides the door open carefully and steps inside. He’s conscious not to let his brute strength break anything. Kyojuro’s home means a lot to him. It’s an ancestral home, modest in comparison to the other Hashira’s, but it's pristine. The generations of Flame Hashira that lived here before him must’ve treasured this home too. Akaza can’t fully fathom it — human sentimentality. All the attachments. All the things Kyojuro will not be able to appreciate for long because he’ll just fucking die like any other human on this worthless planet. It’s all so pointless, so fleeting, and so so unfair. Someone like him deserves eternity. Akaza is feeling selfish again — he hasn’t asked Kyojuro to become a demon in a long time. He knows what his answer will be, though.
He lights a lantern and sits crosslegged on the floor. He doesn’t have to wait long before Kyojuro comes back.
“Father is out and Senjuro is asleep,” Kyojuro says, closing the door.
“That’s good.” Akaza replies, his voice irritatingly chipper.
Kyojuro clenches his eyes shut and rubs the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Akaza jumps to his feet, sauntering over to Kyojuro.
“I have to ask you something,” Akaza says quietly, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. He grins at him wickedly, tilting his head.
Kyojuro lets out an exasperated sigh and opens his eyes, “What would you like to know, Akaza?”
Akaza leans closer, hooking his fingers into the loops of his belt, “Become a demon, Kyoju—“
Without hesitation, Kyojuro snatches Akaza’s hands and turns around to slam his back against the wall, pinning his wrists above his head. Akaza lets out a delighted cackle. He’s getting exactly what he wanted.
Kyojuro doesn’t smile back, “No.”
“Don’t tell me you’re actually mad at me, Kyojuro.”
Whether Akaza likes it or not, he does in fact feel a little regretful about what happened earlier. Akaza wouldn’t be involved with the Corps if it weren’t for Kyojuro, so he must feel responsible for his actions. The guilt that one of his comrades might have been killed today at the hands of his secret lover is probably gnawing away at him. The firm hand on Akaza’s chest slides up to his neck, fingers encircling the tattoos there. The pressure on his neck is too gentle to be taken seriously.
Kyojuro looks like he has to stop to think about it, “I am… a little bit,” he mumbles, looking everywhere but Akaza’s eyes.
“Want me to make it up to you?” Akaza croons, his voice velvet.
Kyojuro’s eyes widen, snapping back to Akaza’s.
“Hmm?” Akaza leans forward into Kyojuro’s hand. He yearns to close the distance between their lips but he still can’t reach him. He lifts his thigh up between Kyojuro’s legs instead.
Kyojuro inhales through gritted teeth. His voice sounds strained when he speaks, “What are you doing?”
Akaza inhales a shaky breath. He’s still pressing his neck into Kyojuro’s hand, making it hard to breathe. “You don’t know?” The fingers around his neck twitch. “I thought you knew me better by now,” Akaza says.
Kyojuro slaps his hand over Akaza’s mouth. “Stop. Talking”.
Akaza decides to risk testing his patience — he licks the palm of his hand. The corners of Kyojuro’s lips twitch as he places his hand on Akaza's neck again.
He can hear Kyojuro’s pulse quickening, blood rushing lower and lower. He can break free at any second but he doesn’t want to. Being the one to experience the Flame Hashira’s raw strength firsthand is exhilarating. From this angle he can see a little bit down the sleeve of Kyojuro’s Corps uniform, to the bulging veins on his wrist. He wants to see all of it. He wants all of him. Akaza can see the reflection of his glowing eyes in Kyojuro’s; he looks past it, focusing on the sunset rings of his irises. The internal turmoil, wildfire, it’s written all over his face.
Akaza’s features soften. He can’t help but ask, “What do you want, Kyojuro?”
Kyojuro’s face lights up in surprise.
Silence stretches between them. Akaza didn’t ask that to try and get a rise out of Kyojuro. It’s an honest question. Sometimes he looks like he’s at war with himself. What’s right, what’s wrong, where he stands, what he should do, what he shouldn’t do. If it contradicts his beliefs, he doesn’t want it. Akaza throws that all into question.
Ever since he was born, expectations and responsibilities were placed on Kyojuro’s shoulders, and he carried them on his back with pride. His goals, ambitions, and desires were always expected to align with what other people wanted out of him. For a while, it did, until Akaza crashed into his life and sent Kyojuro hurtling off the course of his destiny. Maybe Akaza should feel guilty for it, but Kyojuro doesn’t deserve to be bound to such a ridiculously altruistic path that will inevitably reach a dead end, only to be granted death as a reward. Burning bright and fast like a comet in the night sky, all for nameless, weak, undeserving human beings.
Akaza has asked that question before. He gets the same reaction every time — it makes his rotten heart ache. He wonders if anyone had ever asked him that before he did.
From the second Akaza broke that wretched curse, his soul, along with every cell in his body belonged to Kyojuro, all of his own volition. Kyojuro knows it. All he needs to do is reach out, take what’s his, to be selfish for once in his life. Akaza needs him to admit it out loud again and again. To reinforce it. To—
“I want you to get on your knees.”
Violently ripped from his internal monologue, Akaza’s thoughts dissolve, leaving him floundering in his own head. The grip on his wrists is released.
“What’s… happening?” Akaza manages to say.
“You don’t know?” Kyojuro gives him a light shove to the center of the room, and he leans over his shoulder to whisper, low, in Akaza’s ear “I thought you knew me better by now.”
A retort dies on Akaza’s tongue as he drops himself to the floor, his anklets clicking on the mat. His mind is still blank, the space reserved for thought is now a thick fog of dizzying need.
Kyojuro stands a few feet in front of him, staring, irritation thawing on his face. A suggestion of a smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth as he starts undoing his belt. Akaza’s hands, resting on his thighs, grip his pants so hard he can hear the fabric straining.
Belt undone, Kyojuro unbuttons the bottom of his shirt before tugging it over his head and dropping it on the floor behind him.
Akaza’s heart skips a beat, and saliva pools in his mouth at the sight of Kyojuro’s body. His eyes hungrily roam over his figure, to his toned chest, his waist, his v-line, to the light dusting of hair that trails lower, lower, to the solid outline of his length pulling his pants taut. Akaza swallows. His eyes travel back up to the veins on his forearms, his biceps, and finally his neck, where his eyes linger on the blood pulsing through his carotid. When their eyes meet again, Kyojuro is looking up and down at Akaza too.
Akaza is practically vibrating with lust as Kyojuro’s hand glides slowly down his stomach, dipping into his pants. He touches himself below the fabric of his uniform — his eyelids flutter for a moment, his lips part, and a breathy sigh escapes him.
“Take off your clothes,” Kyojuro says, slightly out of breath. It comes across as less of a demand, more of a polite request.
Akaza moves comically quickly though — shrugging off his haori, breaking his belt with a pop, hopping out of his pants, and flicking the anklets off his feet with such brute force that they shatter against the walls. Kyojuro chuckles brightly, his eyes curving into crescents as clothing items are flung unceremoniously to various corners of the room.
“Turn around,” he says through a laugh. Akaza bites his lip and does as he says. He can hear Kyojuro’s steps approaching from behind him, then the shuffle of clothing.
“Bend over.”
Akaza can hear the smile in his voice.
He obliges, and Kyojuro finally touches him, sending electric shocks down his spine. He can feel Kyojuro’s big hands trace the tattooed lines from his shoulder blades to his ass. “If only you were this compliant earlier…”
Akaza’s brain works overtime trying to come up with a response, “But then we wouldn’t be here, so…”
Kyojuro hums. “I think I would have figured out how to get you in this position, one way or another.” His hand stops moving to give Akaza’s cheek a squeeze, his thumb tantalisingly close to his hole.
Akaza’s head lolls to the side, his body buzzing with anticipation. All he can focus on is his throbbing cock — he almost doesn’t notice the room temperature oil being poured on his backside, until Kyojuro’s warm mouth on his ass snaps him out of his haze.
Akaza turns his head again, needing to see what Kyojuro is doing to him. Twisting his body slightly, he can see him now — looking at him through half-lidded eyes, his hot breath ghosting over his skin, he opens his mouth, about to lick— or maybe bite him, when he notices Akaza’s gaze on him.
Kyojuro’s hand shoots out to grab Akaza by the hair on his head and twists it forward again.
“I didn’t say you could look”
“Kyo, please.”
“No,” Kyojuro says, unbothered, cocky. Akaza feels his teeth graze his skin, teasing him, but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t lick. He does nothing. He’s doing this on purpose.
Akaza groans. His neglected cock is aching, already leaking onto his thighs. He’s so fucking turned on it feels like his skin is on fire. He needs to see him, touch him, touch himself, something, anything.
He gasps, feeling a finger suddenly slide into him, then another hand stroking his thigh.
Kyojuro’s finger works inside him, searching, massaging, tearing a provocative moan out of his throat. The pleasure is a living thing, surging through him, rushing under his skin.
The words find him, “You were… so hot… when you fought Sanemi,” Akaza attempts to say between ragged breaths.
Kyojuro bursts out laughing, “Don’t talk about him right now please.”
“You—,” Akaza gasps, unable to finish his thought. Kyojuro hums, most likely feeling far too pleased with himself at how such a dangerous creature melts under his touch. Akaza groans as a second finger slides into him, his fingernails scraping parallel lines into the tatami. As he slowly begins to relax, his gasps turn into soft moans, then breathless encouraging “yes”es, and Kyojuro’s rough fingers fuck into him a little faster, before they are abruptly pulled out of him.
Akaza grunts in surprise, but before he can lose his mind, Kyojuro shifts so that Akaza’s knees are bracketing his own. He nudges them, spreading him wider.
He gently touches his shoulder blade, and Akaza drops his torso lower, resting his head against the floor. Kyojuro leans over to press an open-mouthed kiss to one of Akaza’s back dimples. His breathing is uneven, stuttering, Total Concentration abandoned entirely. He’s barely holding it together too.
“Is this okay?” Kyojuro asks, his voice higher, softer.
Akaza nods. He seems to have forgotten how to speak. He hears Kyojuro take a deep breath, before he begins pressing into Akaza slowly, carefully. Kyojuro exhales a deep moan as he sinks his shaft further into him.
“Ffffffuck,” Kyojuro breathes. He bottoms out and stays still for a few seconds, panting, mesmerised. He gives Akaza’s cheek an affectionate squeeze before he starts rocking into him at a languid pace. He’s being so gentle. It’s such a stark contrast to his roughness earlier. Akaza knows Kyojuro could realistically never hurt him this way — one of the perks of being a demon, he guesses. Now Kyojuro is sinfully soft with him. He wants to feel his strength.
“Slap me.”
“Huh?!”
“Slap me, Kyojuro, for fuck’s sake— You can’t hurt me, just do it,” Akaza sputters, craning his neck, trying to look over his shoulder.
Kyojuro gives him a light tap.
“Oh my god,” Akaza groans, dipping his head. “Slap me like you’re mad at me!”
Kyojuro pulls his dick almost all the way out and stays that way, the tip grazing his rim. Fuck, he’s torturing him on purpose.
“Apologize first.”
“For what?!” Akaza knows exactly what, he just can’t believe that this is how they’re having this conversation.
Tears bead in Akaza’s eyes as Kyojuro slams back into him. Reassuring Kyojuro that he can’t hurt him must’ve unlocked some kind of fucked up sadistic side of him. He feels Kyojuro slide all the way out of him again, causing Akaza to grunt at the loss of contact.
“Say it.”
Akaza hesitates.
Kyojuro drills back into him with a clap.
“Fuck!” Akaza chokes out. It takes a second to regain his breath. Yeah, he’s awakened a fucking psychopath.
“I’m sorry,” He mumbles into the back of his hand as embarrassment burns his ears red.
Kyojuro withdraws again. “I can’t hear you,” He whispers gently, sounding far too charming, before slamming back into him.
“Sorry!” Akaza yelps, “Shit— I won’t get into any more stupid fights, I swear.” A tear rolls down his cheek, fuck, he’s so desperate he’s actually crying. Akaza despises pity, yet he finds himself dangerously close to begging for mercy at this point.
Satisfied, Kyojuro lets out a smug huff of a laugh.
The sound that reverberates off the walls as Kyojuro’s hand connects with Akaza’s ass is so loud it drowns out his own obnoxious high-pitched cry. Akaza bucks backwards hard onto Kyojuro’s cock, and he feels the grip on him tighten. It feels good, and from the way Kyojuro is pulsing inside him, he knows it feels good for him too.
Kyojuro totally gives up on whatever lazy thrusts he was doing earlier, fucking into him harder, deeper now. Akaza’s eyes almost roll back into his skull at the feeling of mind-numbing ecstasy coursing through him. Akaza yelps as Kyojuro slaps him again. The pounding shakes his whole body, his face rubbing against the floor, leaving the faint impression of the tatami mat on his cheek. Another hot spank, another shameless whine, and he lets his eyes flutter shut, hypnotised by the overwhelming pleasure. He might be drooling — he doesn’t care. Kyojuro’s grabbing fistfuls of Akaza’s ass now. He can feel his fingernails cutting into him. He distantly registers the vulgar wet sounds of skin smacking against his, echoing throughout the room. Kyojuro’s moaning Akaza’s name, bending over him, snaking his arm around Akaza’s midriff to press his palm into his abdomen. Something about the change in position makes fireworks burst in Akaza’s vision. A building heat coils tight inside him. He’s moaning the broken syllables of Kyojuro’s name, too. Kyojuro takes Akaza’s dick in his hand, circling the head with his thumb, and without warning, hot, burning pleasure crests, breaks, and crashes over him. A lewd, guttural noise rises up out of his throat as he rides out the wave of his orgasm. His whole body shudders as Kyojuro chases his own high, thrusts getting rougher, more erratic, before finally finishing inside him.
Panting heavily, Kyojuro braces himself up on his forearms, still hunched over Akaza’s back. They stay that way for a minute, both trying to catch their breath. Kyojuro rests his hand on Akaza’s waist. “Are you alright?” He asks between a sharp inhale and exhale.
“Mhmm,” Akaza nods. Apparently the only words left in his vocabulary are “mhmm” and “Kyojuro”.
Kyojuro pulls out with a sigh and slides off of Akaza. Rolling onto his side, Akaza opens one of his eyes to look over at Kyojuro. He’s sitting, leaning back on his hands with his head tilted to the ceiling in bliss. His body glitters with sweat, sending little rivulets trailing down the curves of his muscles. Kyojuro’s knees are red from kneeling and it makes Akaza realize, with a pang of regret, that his body never bears any evidence of the nights they spend together. Becoming a demon put an end to that possibility permanently. He never thought that this would be the reason he’d lament becoming a demon, though. It’s a little funny to think about.
“What are you smiling at?” Kyojuro asks, his voice fond. He reaches out to comb his fingers through Akaza’s hair. They sit there gazing at each other, sated, basking in the afterglow. Their hearts beat in sync.
The lamplight flickers, burning low, threatening to plunge the room into darkness at any second. Kyojuro’s eyes shimmer in the wavering light. Akaza’s eyes suddenly burn. His vision blurs. He swallows, trying to get rid of the sharp sting in his throat. An emotion he can't name wells up deep within him, loud and dark. The feeling surges, sending his heart racing, pounding in his ears. It’s drowning him. It’s terrifying. He has a visceral, primal desire to crawl over Kyojuro, protecting him with his naked body like a wild animal. He wants to shield him, like hands holding a candle in a blizzard, with everything he has.
Akaza threads his fingers through Kyojuro’s hair before pulling him in for an intense, lingering kiss. He moves to straddle Kyojuro, sitting skin-to-skin in his lap. Akaza holds his face in his hands like he’ll disappear in a puff of smoke when he lets go, if he lets go. The wetness in his eyes spills over, clinging to his eyelashes. He only hopes Kyojuro doesn’t see it. He thinks, perhaps, devastatingly, that maybe he does understand human sentimentality after all. He can’t let go. Kyojuro wraps his arms tightly around Akaza’s waist, affectionately rubbing his thumb back and forth over his unblemished skin. They kiss slowly, passionately, like they have all the time in the world. Like demons and demon slayers aren’t at war with each other. Like Muzan Kibutsuji never even existed.
Kyojuro sighs contentedly when Akaza’s cool hands caress his neck, still flushed a bit warm. His lips are so soft, so sweet, so tempting — Kyojuro’s breath hitches and Akaza draws back. A dot of blood rolls off his bottom lip, and it’s irresistible. Like gravity, Akaza is pulled back towards it, swiping it away with a flick of his tongue.
They don’t know how long they sit stuck together there, indulging in each other’s comfortable, quiet company. The moon has risen, its light illuminating the shoji doors, when Kyojuro tilts his head to look up at Akaza’s golden unmarked eyes. There’s only one thing left to say to each other. It hangs suspended in the air between them. Both of them know it, though neither of them can admit it just yet. Akaza presses a quick kiss to Kyojuro’s lips once more in lieu of saying it out loud.
“I’ll get you a towel,” Kyojuro says softly, and they slowly untangle themselves from each other. Akaza’s eyes follow Kyojuro’s figure as he stands up, his hair swishing against his broad, scarred back when he walks out of the room.
It’s early autumn. Temperature doesn’t necessarily affect demons the same way it affects humans, but Akaza thinks Kyojuro would appreciate the cool fresh air. Sliding open the door to the engawa, moonlight floods into the room. His skin turns silver, the ink on his body a dark shade of navy. He looks ghastly, uncanny, and yet Akaza finds himself breathing in the crisp breeze like any other living person. Being with Kyojuro is much like this — to humans, breathing is a necessity, it comes naturally. To a demon, it is a deliberate action. Akaza strikes the balance between them both.
Kyojuro returns wearing a clean yukata, carrying a small damp towel and an extra change of clothes in his hands. He’s staring at the ground, eyebrows knitted together.
“Do you think Shinazugawa knows about us?”
Akaza clicks his tongue “Yeah.”