Chapter Text
Even before meeting Akaza, Kyojuro had always known he would die fighting a demon. He’s never had any plans to retire, never had even a thought of stepping back from the Corps. He’s always thrown himself into his training, into his conditioning, into taking the strength he’d been blessed with and using it to grow even stronger. He could be crippled and he’d still plant himself on the front lines between any demon and any human, between Muzan himself and a sickly old man already on the verge of death. But he’s not ungrateful for his life, for his health and wholeness. By twenty, he’s already had brushes with death more than once, more than twice, more than a couple dozen times, so he considers every new day its own little victory, every battle survived its own little miracle.
After he meets Akaza, he considers it the biggest miracle he will probably ever be granted that he wakes up again at all.
Kyojuro sees sun when he opens his eyes for the first time since his fight with Upper Three. It filters in gently through what he recognizes as the white curtains of the Butterfly Estate hospital, spills across his white bedsheets—so peaceful. So calm. He feels calm, even if a little drowsy. He feels—
He’s not in pain. Not much, anyway, which he feels like should be unexpected, though his still-sleepy mind can’t quite figure out why. His abdomen is tender, which he thinks makes more sense for some reason, and his vision is a little weird, a little shuttered, especially on the left side—
Ah, right. He remembers now. A smashed eye, concussion, shattered ribs. A blue-fingered fist, struck through his core. His left eye is still bandaged, he realizes when he lifts a heavy hand to touch at it, so he can’t tell if it’s been rendered useless or not, but despite the injuries he remembers sustaining, the most pain he’s currently feeling is a low, dull throb. And he can breathe, which is a pretty big plus, even though it’s a little difficult.
Kochou must have pumped him full with painkillers.
It feels like a lifetime away now, with such a different sight before him than what had last been burning behind his eyes. Blood, darkness, violence. Only three shining beacons of hope in front of him in the face of all the pain, the three young boys still just children, begging him to live as he bled out and faded to black and wanted only to see his mother again—and she had been so close. She had been right there. He’d already accepted his death. But now here he is, against all odds, waking up again.
What had become of everyone else? It hadn’t quite been daybreak when he’d faded away. There had barely been any light to see by, just a faint purple glow on the horizon. He doesn’t know who had survived, or not, doesn’t even know how long it’s been. He doesn’t know—had he been strong enough? Had he done well enough, to save everyone? He would’ve gladly given his life if it meant one more person saved.
“Rengoku-san!”
He winces a little at the shout, loud and ringing even to his ears as it pulls him out of his thoughts, but a relieved smile breaks across his face when he shifts his gaze to see the Kamado boy at the doorway to the room, eyes bright and shining, his smile miles wider even than Kyojuro’s own and looking, honestly, not all that worse for wear.
And then Tanjiro bursts into tears as he stumbles towards Kyojuro’s bed.
Kyojuro’s eyes—eye—widens in alarm. “Kamado! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His voice is hoarse and raspy; his estimate for long he’s been unconscious stretches from days to at least a week.
Tanjiro whole body shakes with sobs. “N-no,” he blubbers. “I mean—yes, but not as badly as you. I’m mostly recovered now, actually. I’m just—so happy you’re alive and that you’ve finally woken up! It’s been almost three weeks already, you lost so much blood and you were injured so terribly, I was s-so scared…” His voice trails off into more sobs as he stands by Kyojuro’s bed, looking like he wants to smother him in a hug but like he’s afraid of hurting Kyojuro by touching him.
Kyojuro’s expression softens. He’s grateful that Tanjiro has held back, because he’s not sure how well his still-aching body would react to the pressure of a hug, but he grasps the boy’s hand to offer what comfort and reassurance he can. “I’m sorry I slept so long,” he says. Almost three weeks! Senjuro must have been absolutely beside himself the whole time, especially not even being able to visit him due to the corps’ location secrecy policy—did he even know what had happened at all? Had anyone told him?
“That must have worried you even more!” Kyojuro continues, trying to imbue his voice with reassuring strength. “But I’m awake now. I feel well on my way to recovery, so you don’t need to worry any longer!”
Tanjiro sniffles and wipes at his face. “Zenitsu and Inosuke were here, too,” he hiccups. “And Nezuko and all of the other Hashira. And Kaname has been flying back and forth to your brother and father every day—Senjuro has a lot to say! Even Oyakata-sama came to see you. You saved everyone, Rengoku-san! No one died on that train.” His eyes are welling up again, even though he’d just wiped them. “But I couldn’t kill the demon,” he says, his voice regretful and angry. “I’m sorry. I tried, but he fled into the forest. I’m sorry.”
Kyojuro doesn’t understand why he’s crying about that; it’s more than enough that everyone else is still alive. “It’s alright,” he says. “It’s a good thing you didn’t go after him. Upper Three is still beyond your abilities, young Kamado! It just means you have more time now to grow, for when it’s time to face him again in the future.”
Tanjiro’s eyes widen, and then he steels himself through the trembling of his chin. “Yes! You’re right, Rengoku-san! Please teach me how to be stronger, and I’ll definitely take him down next time!”
Kyojuro chuckles, but quickly has to cut it off with a wince when the movement sends a shock of pain through his core that even Kochou’s potent painkillers can’t touch. He shoves down the pain, puts on a brave face. “I have already accepted you youngsters astsuguko, so I will be sure to train you well!”
After he heals, though, and he has a long way until then. If he can’t even laugh yet without pain, even with all the drugs in his system, it will be months before he’s able to exert himself in any significant capacity. The most he’d be able to do until then is give the boys some verbal instruction, perhaps demonstrate some basic forms without much speed or force. It would be better than nothing, at least.
There’s movement behind Tanjiro; Kyojuro sees Kochou appeared by the door, her expression surprised but fond. “You’re finally awake,” she says. “That’s good. Tanjiro, could I have a moment with him?”
“Oh! Yes! Of course!” The boy gives Kyojuro’s hand a squeeze, gives him one last beaming, still-teary smile, and hurries out.
Kochou watches after him for a few moments, a small smile curving her lips. “He was worried sick, you know,” she says. “As soon as he was cleared to leave his own bed, he spent almost every waking minute by your side. The other two visit often as well. I’m honestly a little surprised you didn’t wake up earlier with all the racket the three of them made sometimes.”
The racket hadn’t even made it into his dreams; Kyojuro remembers nothing. He must have been sleeping like the dead. But he feels a surge of warmth in his chest at Kochou’s words, at her recounts of the boys’ affection. He’s very, very glad that they are all still alive and whole.
“Still, you’re awake a day or two earlier than I initially predicted,” Kochou continues as she checks over his bandages and takes his pulse and temperature. “How are you feeling?”
Kyojuro hums. “I’ve been better! But I could also be much worse. It seems I still have all limbs, at least, and I can move them. And my head seems mostly intact. I don’t feel dizzy.”
“And the pain?”
“Manageable. As long as I don’t move too much.”
“That’s good.” Kochou seems satisfied enough with her inspection; she pulls a chair over to sit beside him. “I’ve got you on the maximum safe dose of painkillers now, so there’s not much else I could do if it got worse. You gave us all quite a scare there, Rengoku. I didn’t think you were going to make it at first. I tried to save everything, but…” Her gaze shifts to focus on his left eye and she falls silent.
Kyojuro attempts a brave smile. “You can tell me, Kochou,” he says. “I won’t break.”
Kochou sighs, bites her lip. “Well. Honestly…I don’t know how much sight you’ll still have, if any. Akaza did quite a bit of damage,” she says quietly. She pauses, but Kyojuro waits patiently, wanting to know—no, needing to know the extent of it, so she continues. “I’m sure you already know the obvious: three shattered ribs on your right side from the front, two on your left from the back, organ damage. Probably also a concussion, but you weren’t awake to tell for sure. You’re lucky he punched at an angle and didn’t go through your spine. As far as what comes after that…I’ll give it to you straight, Rengoku: he ruptured almost every major organ in his path, and there was also bruising on the nearby organs from just the sheer force of the blows. I couldn’t save one of your kidneys, or most of your stomach and liver. There will be massive scarring even after you heal. There will remain significant nerve damage to many of your organs and to the muscles in both your back and your abdomen. You’ll likely experience numbness in some areas, increased sensitivity in others, potentially muscle spasms, and only time will tell if you’ll develop other complications from all the internal scar tissue. Your liver, at least, should regenerate on its own after a few months. But with the damage to your digestive tract…I don’t know if even eating will ever be the same for you.” She hesitates, and her voice is gentler when she speaks again. “I know you won’t take it easy. But I’m going to ask you to, anyway. No one would blame you if you decided to step back.”
Step back. Like, retire? No, he can’t do that. Admittedly, it was a lot to hear everything Kochou had just told him, but being a slayer is his life, it’s his purpose, it’s what his family had been born to do, and die doing, for generations. He won’t be like his—
“You don’t have to distance yourself entirely,” Kochou says, as if she knows what he’s thinking. “You don’t have to sever all ties. There are plenty of corps members who remain mentors, trainers, consultants. There are ways to help even without being on the front lines.”
“No,” Kyojuro says immediately. “No, I can’t. I’ll recover. I have to.” It’s not just his own legacy. It’s his promise to his mother, his promise to the Kamado boy. It’s his purpose. The whole reason he was born gifted with such strength, the reason he’s still alive now. He has no other option.
Kochou looks at him as if she’d expected his answer, as if she understands—and she does, Kyojuro knows. She has people to honor and promises to fulfill, too.
“Well, then, I’ll help you,” Kochou says after a long pause. “It will take a while. I’m sure you know that already. But if you’re determined, I will do everything in my power to get you back out there.”
~
Kyojuro is on bed rest for another two days. His wounds are all closed by now, technically, and when Kochou removes the bandage over his eye he’s thrilled to find that it hasn’t been completely blinded—he can’t see much more than shadows out of it, but Kochou tells him there’s a possibility it may improve a little more as the inflammation continues to go down. He may even get his color vision back, if he’s lucky. The hole in his belly is far from fully healed, but there’s at least skin over both the entry and exit wounds, albeit thin and raw and delicate. Kochou starts him on a diet of mostly liquids and soft foods like soaked rice, not wanting to overwhelm his system but trying to get as many nutrients into him as possible, since he hasn’t been able to eat anything in nearly three weeks. And it shows in his weakness, in his fatigue; he sleeps most of the time, and it isn’t until the morning of the second day that he has the strength to even sit up.
Once he does make it back on his feet, though, Kochou has him immediately start physical therapy. It’s for just a few minutes a day at first, slow short walks to wake his muscles back up and careful ball-tossing exercises to get him re-coordinated with essentially just a single working eye. No twisting or stretching for now, since his ribs won’t be healed for another few weeks and the muscle and new skin in his back and abdomen aren’t strong enough for that kind of force yet, but half an hour of gentle massage three times a day with a special cream designed to soften scar tissue and promote proper healing.
People come to visit him. The three boys, of course, who he sees almost daily until they’re recovered enough to start going on missions again, and the Kamado girl as well. The other Hashira. Mitsuri and Obanai visit together, bringing him seven bowls of takeout from his favorite ramen shop once Kochou has cleared him for solid food—she only lets him eat three at once, though, to his dismay. He’s barely just been cleared for gently stretching and rotating his torso, she reminds him, and he’s still delicate on the inside.
Tengen also visits frequently, often with onigiri that his wives have made. He sits at the foot of Kyojuro’s bed sometimes as he yaps, lounges next to him once, and then Kochou appears and scolds him fully out of the estate for taking up most of a patient’s hospital bed and nearly squeezing him off onto the floor with his stupid giant shoulders. Kyojuro laughs the entire time, loud and joyful and full until the scars in his abdomen hurt and his ribs ache with all the jostling and Kochou returns to scold him, too, for aggravating his wounds. He’s on bed rest for a full day after that, and Tengen prudently stays off his bed on all future visits.
When Shinazugawa and Tomioka visit, they look comically furious and pleasantly surprised, respectively, when they see each other at the Butterfly Estate at the same time. But the tension relaxes as Kyojuro walks slowly with them during his physical therapy session, and by the end of their visit, they seem to be on much more amicable terms, even talking awkwardly about setting up a time to spar—with each other, first, and then with Kyojuro once he’s healed. Himejima comes to see him once, gravely and tearily expressing his well-wishes for Kyojuro’s continued recovery, and little Muichiro is the one who accompanies him on his first visit home five weeks after the fight, making sure he’s supported and steady on the long walk to and from.
Senjuro is thrilled to see him, relieved to the point of tears, and after knocking the breath out of Kyojuro in a hug he proudly serves his homemade sweet potato miso soup recipe that he says he’s been practicing and perfecting for the day Kyojuro returned. It’s delicious—so delicious that even Muichiro, who Kyojuro has never seen have much interest in food, asks quietly if he can have a second bowl. Senjuro blushes furiously with shy pleasure at that, and Kyojuro listens with a fond smile as Senjuro begins rambling excitedly about a hot new recipe he’d heard about called omurice, which involves careful folding and rolling of eggs, and Muichiro latches onto the world fold and then starts his own excited rambling about folding paper planes. And Kyojuro’s father is a grouch, as usual, but there is a distinct lack of alcohol smell on him that Kyojuro is both surprised and pleased by. And he does call Kyojuro foolish, but he doesn’t call him useless.
It’s nice to be home, even if just for a daytime visit. Kochou is still requesting Kyojuro to stay at the Butterfly Estate for a while longer, and Kyojuro doesn’t fight it; she was right about the nerve damage, about the pain. It’s itchy and tingly at times, searing and stabbing at others. It comes at random, unpredictable intervals. At least if he’s at the hospital, she or one of the hospital staff can keep an eye on him if anything goes wrong, give him a new dose of the painkillers Kochou had been weaning him off of. So it’s alone in his hospital bed, the night quiet and the moon a shining sliver, when he sees Akaza again.
He notices the shift in energy first. A subtle darkening like a cloud, a stilling in the bubbling brook. Even the crickets fall silent as if they know a predator is approaching. And then he’s there, arrived with the wind—a silent shadow at the window. Eyes glowing like embers.
Kyojuro feels his hair stand on end; he sits up and reaches for a sword that’s no longer there.
“Hello, Kyojuro,” the demon greets, his voice a low purr.
“Are you here to finish me off?” Kyojuro asks. How had he even found this place? How had he even made it in, with all the wisteria?
The demon chuckles as he lands lightly on the floor. “No,” he says. “That would be no fun. I have no interest in conquering you when you’re not at full strength. You don’t look terrible, though. You’re recovering quickly, for a human. Your fighting spirit is as strong as ever.” He pauses, his gaze flickering up and down what’s exposed of Kyojuro’s body from where the covers had fallen when he sat up. Kyojuro resists the urge to squirm; he’s wearing a yukata, but under the demon’s piercing yellow gaze, he might as well be naked.
“I hope you have no ill intentions tonight,” Kyojuro says, “or I will have to fight you, full strength or not.” Sword or not, too. He’s sure Kochou has some nichirin weapons lying around somewhere, if Akaza would let him get to them first.
“Tch. Like this? I could hold you down with a finger,” Akaza scoffs. “I told you, I have no interest in fighting you right now. If you really want to have a fight with me, you’d let me turn you into a demon.” His voice lowers, becomes almost sultry. “We could have so much fun then, Kyojuro. We could fight forever. You’d be so glorious, I’d be satisfied for eternity just fighting you. I’d never even need to hunt again.”
Right to the point, then, huh. “What did you come here for?” Kyojuro asks bluntly. “Surely not just to flirt with me.”
Akaza blinks, stops. “I’m not—I’m not flirting,” he says, his brow furrowed.
Kyojuro almost laughs; he hadn’t expected the demon to be taken aback so easily. But he doesn’t laugh, because this is Upper Three, and he’s somehow found his way to one of the Hashira estates.
“I was curious how you were doing,” Akaza says. “I hurt you pretty badly. A lesser human would’ve died. But I knew you were strong enough to survive.”
Kyojuro did not expect that answer. His survival was intentional, then. This baffles him. “Why did you leave me alive? You could’ve killed me. You had time. Any other demon would have finished it.”
“I told you,” Akaza says. “You haven’t reached your full potential.” His lips stretch in a grin, his canines glinting in the moonlight. “I was having so much fun sparring with you, Kyojuro, I haven’t had that much fun in centuries. I wanted to give you even more time to grow. Imagine how much more fun I could have with you at full strength.”
He’s been approaching slowly this whole time, his steps silent and smooth across the floor. He’s standing in front of Kyojuro now, so close that a sword would reach his throat with ease, if Kyojuro had one in reach and if Akaza stood still for it. And he stops there, his eyes wide and glowing, cheeks almost flushed. His skin and hair lined with silver in the moonlight.
“I can see your fighting spirit even now, Kyojuro,” Akaza whispers. “It’s so bright and beautiful. It’s like the sun.”
Kyojuro feels a little uncomfortable, and more than a little anxious. Akaza looks like he wants to eat him.
“Become a demon, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “You would be perfect.”
“And you would be delusional to think that I would ever agree!” Kyojuro says.
Akaza blinks, and then he snorts and looks away. “You and your honor, Kyojuro. What’s the point of staying human if you’ll just get weaker and weaker? Why waste time protecting humans who will die anyway, whether from a demon or old age or sickness or some other injury? We demons just accelerate the inevitable. You can’t fight the inevitable, Kyojuro.”
“That’s not the point,” Kyojuro says, even though he’s not sure why he’s even spending time verbally arguing with a demon instead of doing what he should be, which is trying to find a nichirin weapon and lopping his head off. “It’s not about fighting the inevitable. It’s about maintaining and prolonging what time there is! Life is beautiful because it’s fleeting. It’s precious because it’s so delicate. I would not become, nor will I entertain, anyone who negates that!”
Akaza is such a fickle creature, Kyojuro thinks. Just a minute ago he looked like he wanted to eat him, and now he looks baffled and frustrated. “The weak deserve to die, don’t they? A wolf hunts the weakest of the sheep. It’s a basic rule of life.”
“A wolf hunts the sheep because it needs to eat, not because the sheep deserves to die,” Kyojuro corrects, now wondering why Akaza is entertaining the argument instead of just taking what he wants by force, which is what Kyojuro would’ve expected a demon to do. “And I do not hate a wolf for needing to eat, only if it decides to be cruel. Would you say you are cruel, Akaza? Would you say that as Upper Three, you have more agency over your primal needs than a wolf?”
Akaza stares at him for a while, his expression unreadable, and then he’s abruptly in Kyojuro’s space, drawing his yukata open, his face hovering just a hand’s length in front of Kyojuro’s as he leans down to inspect the wound in his abdomen.
Kyojuro’s breath catches in his throat.
“You’re healing well,” Akaza says. “That healer of yours did a half-decent job, I suppose. The stitches are tidy enough.”
Kyojuro’s brow furrows as his brain tries to catch up with the sudden change in subject. What does the demon know about stitching and healing? How does he know about stitching and healing? Why is he so close?
“She’s a poison user, isn’t she,” Akaza continues flatly. His nose wrinkles in distaste. “I can smell it. The whole place reeks of it.”
“Th-the wisteria?” The demon is awfully close. Kyojuro doesn’t expect his voice to come out as high and pinched as it does.
“And whatever else she’s mixing in here.” Akaza sounds distracted, and a moment later his hand is on Kyojuro’s face, right next to his left eye. His thumb rests gently under his brow.
Kyojuro flinches away instinctively, but there’s nowhere he can go. His gaze shoots back up to Akaza’s, his eyes wide and his heart pounding, and the demon stares back at him. Up close, in the long, tense silence, behind the scrawled black kanji of Upper Three, Akaza’s eyes are like the sunrise.
“You’ll recover,” Akaza says finally. “You’re strong enough. When you do, we’ll fight again.”
And then he’s gone, drawing away and back out the way he’d came in a silent rush, leaving Kyojuro with more questions than answers, with wounds aching with the memory of their last fight, with his unanswered challenge—would you say you are cruel, Akaza?—with stained glass sclera etched into his mind and his face burning with the echoes of the demon’s touch.