Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first sign that something is wrong is that Kyojuro wakes up.

It’s unexpected, honestly. He knew his life was over the moment a claw-tipped hand tore through his chest, shattering his ribs, and out his back, sending blood bubbling up his throat. He knew there was no recovering when he felt the ferocious burn of his muscles screaming in protest as he overused his Breath of Flame. There would be no fixing the damage being done to his body.

But now he’s looking up at a wooden ceiling with two working eyes, his entire body tingling uncomfortably, and no idea how he came to be here.

There was screaming, he recalls. Upper Moon Three- Akaza, he thinks- had been shrieking and flailing in his grasp, lurching back in a mad panic as the sky began to lighten. His Demon Art had done something, because the ground had trembled as clouds of dirt were kicked up, and the younger Slayers had yelled beyond his line of vision, and then there was a jerk-

And now he’s turning his head and staring at a traditional room with tatami mat floors and no windows, wondering if this might be some poorly conceived hallucination.

He thinks he’d rather lose the stinging sensation if it is a hallucination. It’s a bit unfair that he has to deal with it if he’s dead or dying- and really, this room isn’t something he cares for much either. He doesn’t recognize it at all, and his vision blurs slightly as he considers the space, the similarities it shares with his own home, and-

Focus, he thinks sharply, unsettled with the ease in which his thoughts are drifting.

He scans the room carefully. There’s no one else in here, no details that could tell him where he is. There’s a smell in the air that’s very pleasant yet unnamable, and he swallows as it hits his throat- it’s a very good smell, like something slow cooked over a day and meant for a feast. He runs his tongue over his teeth- and freezes.

Slowly, praying to every god he knows of that he’s somehow mistaken, he presses his tongue against his canines.

They’re sharp- long, and the teeth on either side have also changed, becoming more jagged. The teeth on the bottom are the same, and with his breath quickening with a panic that he rarely indulges in, he brings his hands out from under the thin sheet on top of him and looks at them.

Long, pointed nails, tipped in a deep orange- almost red- color. Claws.

He puts it all together very quickly, no matter how much he’d like to stew in denial. Two working eyes when he knows one was crushed; the hole in his chest healed over and leaving nothing but an odd sensation of wrongness; fangs and claws. A demon with stark lines over his face saying, become a demon, Kyojuro.

A demon, then.

He doesn’t… know what to do with that. The very thought of it is so separate from anything he’s ever expected in his life that it doesn’t quite compute. His mind drifts around the edges of the concept in an effort to act like it’s not there.

His clothes are the same he was in on the train, minus his Demon Slayer jacket and shoes. When he sits up, he sees that the hole is still right there in his undershirt, proving that yes, all of that did happen. Blood is soaked into it, making it stick uncomfortably to his skin and scrape when he moves to stand.

There are bloodstains on the floor, upon closer inspection, and smears of it leading toward the sliding door.

The smell makes his mouth water.

He wants to throw up at the realization. Horror builds as he realizes his mouth tastes like this room smells. He can’t remember anything between the fight and waking up here, and he’s coherent in a way that Nezuko, who has never eaten a human, never was, and- he checks his hands, wanting to be proven wrong. Please, let him be wrong.

There’s blood, crusted and vivid, sticking to his palms. He’s not like Kamado Tanjiro, god-blessed through generations of devoted worship to any selected deity, but he can tell from just one focused breath that the blood doesn’t smell like him. 

So there’s blood on the floor, blood on his hands, and it’s not his.

He’s working himself up into a proper fit of panic when a door slides open, and he whips around to face it.

Standing in the doorway has to be one of the prettiest people he’s ever seen; flawless, pale skin, coupled with blonde hair pulled away from their face to reveal eyes that are every color of the rainbow. They- he, he’s fairly sure- are wearing a plain black undershirt with a red haori, one of his hands clutching what looks to be a folded fan.

There are also what look to be kanji in his eyes, which does not bode well.

Did Akaza turn him into a demon even after he denied the offer, he wonders frantically? The demon had seemed very stringent on getting Kyojuro to agree, and he very clearly didn’t. Was Kyojuro brought to the Upper Moon’s base? Would they kill him?

(Part of him hoped they would. There was no way that this would turn out well for him.)

“Oh,” the demon- because it surely is, there’s no way he’s human- says with a sort of airy surprise. “You’re awake already! And what pretty marks you got! Kokushibou-san will be very jealous.” He says this last part with a sharp smile, as if anticipating the reaction.

But- marks? What marks? He doesn’t understand the meaning, and it’s a struggle to switch the track of his thoughts right now. Here he is, in an unfamiliar place, suddenly a demon, and here’s-

Here’s the demon that Shinobu described standing right in front of him, he realizes with a sinking feeling. This is the demon that killed Kanae-san, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

“You must be wondering where Akaza is,” the Upper Moon says cheerily, pulling him from his thoughts. He hadn’t been wondering, honestly, except in order to avoid the pink-haired demon. The blonde waggles his finger in a chiding sort of way and says, “He’s in big trouble with Muzan-sama for that stunt he pulled with you. Very naughty! I’ll bet he’ll be walking around without an arm for a while.”

Upper Moon Three is in trouble? What, for turning him into a demon? That’s what demons do. 

“You’re very pretty though,” the blonde continues casually, looking him over in a way that makes his skin crawl. “You were a good choice, if nothing else. And a Hashira, too! Very good for us.”

Former Hashira now, Kyojuro thinks with resignation. At best, he’ll be killed on sight. At worst, they’ll learn that he’s apparently consumed some form of a human and think of him with disgust. There’s no coming back from this.

It’s every Demon Slayer’s worst nightmare; becoming what they hunt.

“Where am I?” He manages to make himself ask. His voice rasps oddly, and he almost scrapes his tongue on sharp teeth.

The demon blinks at him. “Home,” he says simply, smiling smugly as he very obviously withholds any useful information. Kyojuro suppresses a scowl. “I’m Douma. You’re the Flame Hashira, right?” And then, without waiting for an answer, “Gods, Kokushibou-san will hate that. I can’t wait to tell him. You have to let me introduce you.”

Kyojuro opens his mouth, searching for something to say in response to that- does Douma seriously think Kyojuro wants to meet more demons? He’d very much like to get out of here in general- but before he can come up with anything that won’t get him killed, rapid footsteps sound as yet another demon shows up.

“Is it true? Oh my gods, it is! Douma, move. He looks terrible, this is embarrassing for us,” she says, and Kyojuro is once again thrown by how beautiful she is. Is this a prerequisite for demons? Are they all ridiculously attractive? Maybe Muzan has some sort of arrogance thing at play, and doesn’t make important demons out of unattractive humans. He certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

“He just recently ate,” Douma comments, and Kyojuro just about gags at the confirmation.

There must be some sort of other meaning to that past the obvious, though, because the new, black-haired woman regards him more seriously. Her eyes scan over him and sharpen. She looks- surprised, maybe? What for?

“Are you messing with me?” She demands, directing a scathing look at Douma, and Kyojuro is so very out of his element. “There’s no way that-”

“It’s the reason he’s still here,” Douma interrupts, and Kyojuro goes still.

It’s the reason he’s still here, Douma said, with the type of intensity that means it’s why he’s still alive . He struggles to put it together; there’s something important, he thinks, something unusual about him. He’s being regarded as if he’s something new and unique, and… he’s still alive. Surely, they would have killed him. Demon now or not, he’s a Hashira. If he manages to get out, the first thing he’ll be doing is reporting the location of this base to Oyakata-sama- whether that means his death afterward or not. There’s no way that they aren’t aware of where his loyalty lies.

“What’s your name?” The woman asks him intently, folding her arms into the sleeves of her very expensive-looking kimono.

Part of him doesn’t want to answer- the instinctual part that says not to give demons any information. The logical part tells him that they’ll get the answer anyway, since Akaza is aware of his identity. So he answers, “Rengoku Kyojuro.”

“Did someone tell you that?” Douma asks immediately, looking startled.

What? Did someone tell him his name? “No,” he says uneasily, wondering what this is about.

The two share an unsettled look.

Kyojuro takes a cautious step back, shifting his stance. There’s a tension in the air that has him on edge. There’s no way he could beat what must be two Upper Moon demons, but he certainly won’t go down without making an attempt.

“I’ll tell Muzan-sama,” the woman says, taking one last look at Kyojuro before turning to leave.

Douma doesn’t move, keeping his eyes on Kyojuro. After a moment, he says idly, “You’re very odd, you know. By all rights, you should still be a mindless, slathering beast whose only wish is to obey Muzan-sama.” The demon takes a step inside, sliding the door closed behind him. “Tell me, Kyojuro. Do you recall your family?”

Perplexed, Kyojuro answers with, “Of course I do.”

Should I not? They’re asking him these questions like his answer should be different, but that makes no sense. Why would he not remember his name- his family? Even Nezuko could recall her family, and she was leagues less coherent than Kyojuro is right now.

But- no. He frowns, recalling something Oyakata-sama told the Hashira at their last meeting.

( “Urokodaki-san has informed us that the circumstances around Kamado Nezuko are very unique. In Giyuu-kun’s report, it was stated that she attacked her brother after first turning into a demon. To counter this, Urokodaki-san performed hypnotism on her to make her see all humans as family.”

Kyojuro’s blinks, surprised at the information. Hypnotism- and all related arts that borrow energy from spirits- is a very specialized area of study. That Urokodaki-san is well versed in it speaks of his years of training and wisdom.

He thinks it odd, though. Does Kamado Nezuko see them all as her own, true family, or as some sort of distant relative? Surely she would register the lapse of logic- she has to realize, at some point, that they aren’t truly her family.

And what then? )

Maybe Nezuko hadn’t been aware of her family. She attacked her eldest brother, after all; who’s to say that she remembered anyone else before Urokodaki-san’s hypnotism?

If that’s true, then how is it that Kyojuro does?

“How odd,” Douma says thoughtfully, tilting his head at him in a way that manages to be as elegant as it is careless. “Did you ever drink blood as a human?”

Kyojuro chokes on his spit. “ No, ” he responds vehemently, disturbed by even the thought. Why would he?

Douma looks at him like he thinks Kyojuro is lying.

He curls his hands into fists, feeling the sharp bite of unfamiliar claws against his palms. The pain is grounding. There’s a haze around his thoughts right now, worsened by the fear of being trapped in a room with what is, upon closer inspection, Upper Moon Two.

He didn’t even survive his encounter with Three, and that was while he was still basically fresh- not to mention he had a sword then. There’s not a doubt in his mind that this demon could end his life in an instant if he so wished.

Douma hums, a startlingly pleasant sound. Everything about him is pleasant, really, which is ironically discomfiting. “I don’t think we’ve had a demon like you before. I wonder how much you’d have to eat to develop a Demon Art.”

He says it in a way that implies that he’d very much like to find out the answer, which sets alarm bells ringing in Kyojuro’s head.

Bad enough that he must’ve already eaten something of human origin; worse that he’ll likely have to eat more to survive. He feels like he could eat a good deal, really, and some deep instinctual part of him very much wants to.

How did Nezuko do it? How is it that she hasn’t consumed a drop of human blood, yet somehow unlocked a Demon Art?

If regular humans smell as appetizing as the blood left in this room makes him think, then how tempting would Sanemi-san be?

Even if he wanted to, though, there’s no way he could resist it if they forced him to eat. These are Upper Moons- they’re the strongest demons alive, second only to Kibutsuji Muzan himself.

Daringly, and perhaps a bit suicidally, Koyjuro says, “I don’t want to find out.”

Douma regards him with eyes that seem oh so empty up close. “You wouldn’t have a choice,” the Second Moon replies.

It sounds like a warning.

They’re interrupted by the door opening again, the same black-haired demon from before entering and closing it quickly. Douma makes an odd humming noise, and the woman says, “Muzan-sama is in a mood. Akaza will probably end up on watch duty again.” With a scoff, she adds, “As he should, honestly. He’s acting pathetic.”

Douma grins, revealing perfectly white teeth. “Oh, don’t be like that, Daki-chan! You’ll be so lonely without him.”

“As if,” she says with a scowl. “Akaza’s a brat.”

“You like him.”

“I don’t.”

“She does,” Douma says, looking over at Kyojuro as if saying, Can you believe this?

And no, Kyojuro really can’t.

He expected… well, he’s not sure. More violence, for certain. He expected the Upper Moons to be unreasonable and bloodthirsty, to act like- to act like demons. But here they are, squabbling in a way that is astonishingly human. It reminds him of Sanemi-san and Mitsuri, honestly, which is an uncomfortable thought.

Then the woman- Daki, apparently- slaps Douma over the head with what looks a lot like a sash of an obi, except moving all on its own.

Koyjuro stares, just a little. Barely noticeable, probably, but still a somewhat embarrassing lapse in control.

But really. A moving obi? Demon Arts are very, very odd.

“You’re being rude to our guest,” Douma says with a pout, fixing where his hair was mussed.

“And you’re being a pest. Quit it.”

Koyjuro considers, for a moment, running past them to the door. Douma’s eyes immediately fix on him, as if hearing the thought.

“She has a point, though,” the blonde says thoughtfully. “You look rather unbecoming.”

Kyojuro blinks, trying to figure out what he means- and recalls Daki saying that Kyojuro looks horrible. He certainly won’t deny it- he can tell, even without a mirror, that there’s still blood from his own injuries on his head, matting his hair. The blood from his chest soaked down into his pants, as well, and he’s sure it all looks very unappealing.

He really isn’t concerned about it. He’s more focused on getting out of here.

“I thought you loved blood,” Daki says mockingly, adjusting her already immaculate kimono to fix imaginary wrinkles.

“ Fresh blood,” Upper Moon Two responds scornfully. He eyes Daki for a long moment, and there must be some sort of silent conversation between them before he says, “I’ll fetch some water and a cloth.”

Kyojuro shifts back, frowning. That’s- odd. Douma is clearly the more powerful of the two, if Kyojuro read the Six in Daki’s eye correctly. There’s some sort of dynamic between them that’s unfamiliar to him.

As Douma leaves, Daki turns her attention to him with a scowl. “Stop looking so tense. If we wanted to kill you, we’d be done with it already.” She snaps her fingers at him. “Shirt off now. All that blood is unseemly.”

Kyojuro hesitates. There’s no way in hell he’d ever be comfortable without even the most miniscule of layers to separate him from these demons.

She doesn’t look hostile, though. Just annoyed.

It’s all very disturbing, this easy, human behaviour. She should be trying to kill him. He shouldn’t be able to stand here and move freely. Even without a sword, he’s still a trained combatant; he’s hardly harmless just because he lacks a weapon. That’s not even mentioning the new strength he feels contained under his skin.

Haltingly, he sheds his shirt. It catches around where Akaza’s hand had been through his chest , like it got stuck in the skin as it healed. He has to tug to dislodge it, and there’s a trickle of blood before it heals over.

That is incredibly disturbing to watch.

Oh, he thinks as he stares down at his chest. Those- those are the marks Douma meant.

There, where the hole was, is a deep, dark red pattern. It fans out like a flame, curling over and onto his back. He can’t follow it all the way with his eyes, but when he concentrates on it, he can feel an odd prickling that stretches up to the back of his neck and over the side of his face.

The marks on a demon are important, he remembers. The Corps couldn’t find out why, but they know it somehow represented the power of the demon. Akaza had them as pitch black lines all along his body, and the demons allied with Lower Moon Six had taken a sugar-pale, red-lined look. Douma doesn’t seem to have any, unless his eyes are some variation of it. He wouldn’t doubt that they are.

When he looks up, he finds Daki staring at his chest. It’s not in an inappropriate way, he concludes after a moment; no, she looks like she’s been surprised. There’s a furrow to her brow.

Douma reappears, then, sliding the door open with a foot and carrying in a large wooden pail, a white cloth draped over its edge. Unlike Daki, he only falters for a moment upon seeing him before walking the rest of the way in.

“Daki-chan, stop staring. How rude of you.”

“Shut up,” she snaps without hesitation. To Kyojuro, she says, “Make yourself presentable. Muzan-sama will probably be coming by eventually. There’s a change of clothes on the desk over there-” she points to a flat surface that could double as a shelf, “-for you. You’ll get a set of actually decent ones later, when you won’t make them disgusting by touching them.”

Kyojuro barely even hears the second part, because he’s trying very hard not to let the immediate, gut-wrenching fear of hearing Muzan will be coming here causes him. His mind, trained for quick thinking in high-pressure situations, automatically starts spewing out idea after idea. If he ran fast enough, regulated his breath well enough, then he might be able to run with the element of surprise.

But the demons wouldn't be surprised at all, and they're waiting outside the door, barring any chance he might have to escape, so he takes a deep breath, allows himself to roughly run his hands down his face in anxiety, and sets to cleaning his skin of the blood that should have caused his death.

Chapter Text

It had been an accident.

Akaza is not like Muzan-sama; the spirits that share their energy with demons don’t like any of them near as much as they do their Master, and therefore don’t lend them the ability to unwillingly turn a human into one of them. Younger demons have to ask, have to barter, have to work for it by sharing a frankly ridiculous amount of their blood, and even still some of them have to resort to asking for assistance.

That Akaza even managed to turn Kyojuro into a demon is a mystery, and it’s one that Muzan-sama demands to have answered.

“It is not possible for you to accidentally create a demon,” Muzan-sama says with quickly thinning patience, obvious in their narrowed eyes and downturned mouth. “It’s not possible for you to create a demon at all .”

“It’s not like I was trying to,” Akaza snaps back, because his automatic response to any negative emotion directed at him is to match it with equal aggression. He used to get his ass kicked regularly for the habit until their Master resigned themself to it. “I was trying to get away from him. The bastard wouldn’t let me go.”

“You’re lying to me.”

Akaza falters, because that’s the dangerous sort of tone that means he’s treading the line of potential violence here. He might like fighting, but he knows better than to do anything of the sort with Muzan-sama. His blood would be staining the hardwood floors before he could even blink.

He frowns a bit, though, because somehow that rings true. Is he lying? He didn’t plan to-

Memory sparks, and he voices with confusion, “I asked if he wanted to become a demon.”

How had he forgotten that? It came from his own mouth, after all. He even said it multiple times, the words weighing on his tongue and making his blood burn hotter, a sense of rightness to the offer.

Muzan-sama’s expression switches from furious to irritated in an instant. Akaza hopes his relief isn’t blatantly obvious. “And you didn’t remember until right now?”

“I’m already forgetting again,” Akaza admits. It’s not as unsettling as it could be, since memory issues are a given to anyone with even a drop of Muzan-sama’s blood in their system, but it still pisses him off. Here Akaza is doing something new and impressive, and he can’t even be bothered to remember how. Annoying.

But every time he tries to recall, all he can remember is the moments right before; the panicked bid for safety he made by channeling all his remaining energy into hauling Kyojuro closer into a steadier center of gravity, the crack of the ground under his feet as he launched them into the trees, the impact of them rolling in the shade, and then- a blank spot. In his memory, he was rolling on the ground one moment, racing through the forest with a blade in his neck and a Hashira in his arms the next, and then suddenly the ground dropped out from under him and he was hitting the floor of the Fortress.

“Spirit nonsense, then,” Muzan-sama says with obvious distaste. The half-transparent, red kitsune spirit lurking behind them brushes one of its tails against Muzan-sama in a silent reprimand, which makes their lip curl. They pointedly don’t apologize. “I suppose we won’t kill him immediately, in that case. How long has it been since he ate?”

Akaza glances to the clock on the wall, which reads 12:17. “Around six hours.”

Muzan-sama tsks in annoyance. Freshly turned demons need rest directly after their first meal in order for their biology to properly mutate, and not even Muzan-sama supplying extra blood changes that. They could wake him, but it could cause any variety of problems. Akaza’s heard of demons losing the ability to properly speak, read, balance correctly, and many consequences that are arguably worse.

“I’ll use the wait to think of what to do with you,” Muzan-sama decides smoothly.

Akaza bristles with offense. “I didn’t turn him into a demon on purpose, ” he snarls furiously.

Muzan-sama narrows their eyes in warning. “I don’t care if it was on purpose. Demons are not to share blood without permission.”

“What part of it was an accident- ” he starts, but cuts himself off as a thought sparks.

This isn’t an act of ruthlessness, he realizes. Muzan-sama likely doesn’t care all that much, but they’ve set a rule for all demons to follow, and Akaza has broken it. It doesn’t matter if Akaza did it by accident, because if he gets let off with just a slap on the wrist, other demons will take it to mean that it’s an acceptable misdemeanour to commit. They have to make it obvious that he’ll be punished the same way anyone else doing it would be.

Muzan-sama looks down their nose at him while they wait for him to get it. They don’t do anything as demeaning as praise him for using his brain- that’s for the baby demons like the Lower Moons- but there’s a hint of approval.

Muzan-sama opens their mouth, closes it, and looks toward the door a moment before it slides open.

Daki, Akaza thinks with displeasure. Of course she came to the Fortress as soon as she caught wind of the drama, being the busybody she is. She’s even still adorned with her hair ornaments and expensive, geisha-level kimono. He catches a whiff of several familiar scents off of her- her brother, Douma, and, unsurprisingly, Kyojuro.

She gives Akaza an equally spiteful glare, and then looks to Muzan-sama and says, “The Slayer is awake.”

Akaza’s face goes blank with shock, but Muzan-sama doesn’t miss a beat. “How coherent is he?”

“He’s…” Daki pauses, and Akaza turns to her with interest. She’s a trained courtesan- she almost never falters when it comes to speaking. “He’s completely coherent.”

“No he’s not,” Akaza protests automatically, because that is literally impossible.

“Explain,” Muzan-sama orders in a flat voice.

“Douma was already there when I found the room,” she starts, “and the Slayer was awake. He was standing steadily when I arrived, and speaking clearly. He even already had Marks,” she says, gesturing loosely around the left side of her face, and Akaza makes an incredulous sound. “They looked a lot like Kokushibou-san’s, dark red and fanning out like fire. When we asked if he remembered his name and past, he said that he did.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “He did still have a bit of a growl to his voice, however.”

That’s got to be bullshit. There’s no way. There’s no spirits-damned way that he’s already thinking clearly. Akaza saw what they fed him, and it wasn’t even Marechi, energy-rich that they are. It would maybe be possible to think clearer in that case, except that it was only a leg’s worth of meat, and he apparently has Marks already. According to Muzan-sama, Akaza’s transformation was the fastest in history, aided by his years of prayer and worship to deities of health and recovery in the hopes that it’d help…

The thought drifts away there, and he doesn’t even bother getting annoyed by it. Typical. Maybe he was ill as a human.

Muzan-sama considers. They don’t refute the information, or show any outward reaction except for interest. “Get him cleaned up, then. I want to examine him to see what’s different.”

Daki nods, primly turning on heel to leave the room at the dismissal.

There’s a moment of silence while Muzan-sama eyes the door, deep in thought, and Akaza shifts while he waits.

“You are not to leave the Fortress unless you receive my explicit permission,” Muzan-sama says eventually. “You are not to engage in any physical fights, and you will bear the watcher mark until I deem otherwise.”

Akaza fights to keep his expression even. He doesn’t care about the watcher mark- a sigil of blood inscribed on the forehead that makes one’s position always be known to Muzan-sama, and a visible way to tell other demons that he’s in poor favour with their Master- but to not fight goes against his very nature. The spirits that have been drawn to him over time are ones of conflict and combat- they feed on adrenaline and thoughts of violence. To not cause others pain will in turn cause him pain when the spirits grow displeased.

The only reason he doesn’t argue against it is because Muzan-sama very clearly stated physical fights. He can start verbal fights with the others, can linger near when they draw each other’s blood and fury, and he can make do with that.

At least Daki is here. She’s a straight up bitch- infuriating her to the point of attack isn’t a challenge at all. It’ll be redirecting it at someone else that’ll be problematic.

“Yes, Muzan-sama,” he agrees, kneeling and tilting his head up to get this over with.

The other demon steps forward, repositioning Akaza’s head to a more convenient angle. They then carefully press the pad of their index finger to a fang, willfully suppressing their frankly insane regenerative ability, and write the kanji for seen in careful movements.

Everything Muzan-sama does is careful, Akaza has come to know. The way they watch the demons they’ve created, eyes sharp for anything new and different. The way they walk, so completely refined that even Daki, the perfect example of a geisha, looks like a hobbling child in comparison. The way they dress, always ready for their plans of the day, always perfectly matching down to the accessories.

There’s a reason they’re all so loyal to Muzan-sama, and it’s not just because they are the one who created them. Muzan-sama has a presence that draws them in, completely irresistible. Not that any of them try to resist.

Muzan-sama’s lips twitch as they draw their finger back, the mark they’ve written burning as its power seeps into Akaza’s skin. “Such high praise,” they say in a drawl, very clearly amused, and Akaza twitches as he remembers, once again, that Muzan-sama can often hear the thoughts of demons in close proximity.

The kitsune in the back of the room chitters a mocking laugh, and Akaza sends a scathing look its way. Unrepentant, it trots away through the wall, undoubtedly off to spread mischief and tell every spirit that sits still long enough that someone’s gotten punished by Muzan-sama.

“You’ll come along with me to visit our newest curiosity,” they state idly, licking the blood off of their finger as the wound heals. Akaza rises to his feet at the implied permission, following after them as they walk toward the door. “I’ll need to retrieve a few things on the way.”

Akaza nods in reply, adjusting his stride to match Muzan-sama’s, which is limited by the kimono they’re wearing. It must’ve been one of their days in, he thinks regretfully. He considers apologizing for wasting their little down time, but he’s not sure if it would somehow offend. Muzan-sama could have easily chosen not to be here.

“It’s fine,” they say, leading the way out of the room and down the hall toward their study. “This is much more interesting than dealing with the Chinese demons.”

Ah, Akaza thinks. He had been wondering why it took almost an hour for Muzan-sama’s arrival, and there’s his answer. Nakime, the honorary Upper Moon who controls the Fortress, needs time to gather power for distances so far away. They call this fortress interdimensional, but it’s more of a pocket dimension than anything else. It was first opened in northern Japan, so that’s where it’s bound.

It’s always annoying as fuck when Muzan-sama needs them on another continent for some reason or another, because Nakime likes to act all quiet and nice, but she’s actually an asshole. She likes to just open entrances under them without warning when they’re called back, and if other demons are around to see them shriek as they’re suddenly falling through the air and into the Fortress, it’s just a bonus for her. Douma was dropped into the kitchen naked one time, though, which was absolutely hilarious. They all stopped complaining after that.

Akaza sidesteps as a kamaitachi recklessly darts past, a sickle clasped in the weasel spirit’s mouth. That probably means that Gyuutaro is loitering around somewhere, which isn’t that surprising seeing as Daki’s here. You rarely see one of the siblings without the other following close behind.

Akaza waits patiently outside the door to the study as Muzan-sama gathers the items they want, watching as some sort of cat spirit- running too fast for him to quite make out- sprints past, a tanuki chasing after it.

The Fortress is great, and the only true haven for demons, but it’s also so full of various spirits that navigating it is  treacherous. Demons and spirits are closely bound in a mutually beneficial sharing of power, in which demons cause chaos in the physical world for them. It’s the reason demons attain such a wide variety of appearances- they take after the spirits who like them, energy mingling and evolving. Muzan-sama once said that spirits despised their very existence at first, and the only reason they lived past 100 was due to the sheer magnitude of the minor deity that favoured them personally.

Akaza and the others might joke that the spirits are pests they could do without, but more than a few demons have died in the tricks and traps left around the Fortress, and that’s just their idea of fun. It’s more than a little terrifying imagining what hostility would have in store for them. Better to just do what the spirits want. At least it gives them something to do with their immortality.

“Akaza,” Muzan-sama’s voice calls from inside, and he steps in curiously. Without looking at him, Muzan-sama gestures to a rectangular box on a table that, while crowded with books and a variety of tools, somehow manages to look neatly organized. “Carry that for me. Do not jostle it.”

“Yes, Muzan-sama,” he responds idly, picking it up carefully. It’s rather light, and he wonders what’s in it. With anyone else, he would just open it and find out for himself, but he’s not rude enough to try it with this particular individual. He’ll probably find out later, anyway.

He retreats to the door in case he’s somehow in the way, watching Muzan-sama nudge a spider spirit the size of their head aside in order to retrieve a sealed inkwell behind it. After grabbing a pristine, prettily patterned calligraphy brush, they turn and lead the way out and to Kyojuro’s room.

The area around Muzan-sama’s rooms were empty of other demons, but as they make their way to the opposite end of their declared, lived-in section of the dimension, they start coming across others. They all respectfully keep their distance, some bowing as they pass, and none of them speak to them. Some of them are recognizable among the others; there are two still bearing the appearance of Rui’s short-lived clan, several types of spider spirits clinging to their arms or wandering nearby. One demon has the trailing yellow squares of someone who operated under Enmu.

Akaza didn’t like Enmu very much, sure, but he didn’t hate them. They didn’t work well together for the simple reason that the spirits tied to them opposed each other- Akaza’s of physical violence, and Enmu’s of dreams.

Even those who hated Enmu with a burning passion mourn their death, though. They weren’t obvious about it, but everyone with a working brain knew that Muzan-sama and Enmu were close. It’s not as frowned upon by demons as it is by humans, but those who don’t identify simply as woman and man are few and far between. There was also a rumour that Muzan-sama and Enmu were involved in some sort of relationship, but that’s not really Akaza’s business.

He was tempted to kick the demon’s ribs in who said it, honestly, but they unfortunately happened to be in a space with humans nearby at the time.

When they arrive at the door to Kyojuro’s room- small, vivid seals painted over it to keep the spirits out- Douma is standing outside of it with a stupid, airheaded look on his face. He is so effortlessly obnoxious. It’s going to be a massive pain not being able to beat the shit out of him for a while.

He turns when they get close- Akaza figures some of the seals must be messing with his nose if it took him so long- and brightens. “Ah, Muzan-sama!” He says cheerfully, completely ignoring Akaza. Good. Fuck him anyway. “Did you come to see Rengoku-kun? You look marvelous today, by the way!”

Muzan-sama bears it with practiced ease. “Thank you, Douma,” they say smoothly, not answering the Second Moon’s question. The answer is obvious, anyway. Why the fuck else would they be here, to see Douma? As if.

Douma smiles his pretty, empty smile, and steps aside to let them in.

Akaza actually chokes when he sees Kyojuro.

The man is sitting on the only bed in the room, clothed in a simple, deep red yukata. It looks like he made some sort of attempt at cleaning the blood from his hair, which was only partially successful.

More importantly, though, are the differences made visible when his gaze snaps up to them with a focused intensity.

Kyojuro, when Akaza had fought him, had already been a very aesthetically pleasing human in appearance. There was something so very unique and eye-catching about his thick, frizzy hair, with its vibrant blonde color and red tips. His eyebrows, Akaza remembers thinking, would look ridiculous on absolutely anyone else, but somehow the thickness and sharp shape of them fit perfectly on Kyojuro’s face.

His eyes, though, had been the most striking thing about him; deep red and orange, the color fading at the edges as if mimicking the flame that he was known for.

One of those eyes, now- the one that Akaza’s fist had grazed and destroyed- is pitch black where the white had been. The slitted pupils aren’t surprising, but what is surprising is the deep red mark that curls over the side of his face, framing the eye.

Daki was right, as it turns out. It has a startling resemblance to the one on Kokushibou-san.

While Akaza quickly takes in the differences- dark orange tipped claws, skin a shade lighter, a bit of a point to his ears- Kyojuro’s eyes are locked on Muzan-sama. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for a sword that’s not there. Other than that, he moves not a muscle.

It’s an understandable reaction, Akaza figures. Muzan-sama is the most dangerous individual that Akaza has ever met, and there’s an aura about them that screams power. For Akaza, who has never had that directed at him except for one very memorable occasion in which he accidentally broke a vial of highly concentrated wisteria essence, it’s something to admire instead of fear. For Kyojuro, who was bred and raised to fight demons, it must be like a demon being exposed in the open and seeing the sky lighten with dawn.

He very carefully pushes down the shiver that wants to go through him. He very recently experienced that fear, and he has a feeling that next time he sleeps it’ll feature in nightmares.

In a setting with other humans, Muzan-sama would likely draw out the tense atmosphere and posture a bit. They’d drawl out a threat effective enough to flood everyone present with adrenaline, and they’d release the tight hold they keep on the overwhelming effect of their presence.

Here, though, with no reason to waste time, Muzan-sama asks first, “Did you worship a deity of fire?”

Akaza bites his tongue, shoulders shaking with silenced laughter as Kyojuro very visibly startles, expression flashing with bafflement before he can stop it.

Akaza would level a city, would slaughter hundreds if Muzan-sama asked it of him. He respects Muzan-sama fully and completely, but at their very core, Muzan-sama is a nerd. A bookworm, a devourer of knowledge. It’s so common to see spirits of learning and books near them that some demons assume they’re bound to them.

They want to learn, they want to know the answer to everything, and sometimes, when they are out of their element enough- though they will never admit that it’s even possible- they forget that they have to ease into getting information.

There’s a half-second of sharp, stinging pain in his watcher seal as Muzan overhears his thoughts, and with a great effort, Akaza stops laughing and straightens, wiping his glee off of his face as best as he can.

“No,” Kyojuro answers after a beat. Then, like he’s remembering who it is he’s talking to, he says, “My family does not worship any deity.”

Akaza glances to Muzan-sama, wondering what the goal is here.

He can only assume that the reason the question is being asked is because of the way the Marks resemble who they’re part of. Akaza prayed to deities of healing, and so he got regeneration. Nakime was a performer, so her ability is tied to an instrument. Kokushibou-san’s family had worshipped some little-known deity of fire, and so he got flames.

If the Mark were in any other pattern, Akaza would just guess it was related to the man using Flame Breathing- but this particular one reflects Kokushibou-san’s perfectly.

Muzan-sama tilts their head slightly, and asks, almost casually, “Do you know who I am?”

Akaza jerks, looking to his Master with alarm. Are they trying to make Kyojuro say their name? That’ll kill him in an instant. There was no permission there, nothing that said Muzan-sama was allowing the freshly-turned demon to voice it, so if he does, it’s an immediate game over. Didn’t they want to examine his blood? To learn of his origins and if they were somehow involved in his unheard of transformation?

And then Kyojuro opens his mouth, says, “Kibutsuji Muzan,” and very clearly doesn’t die.

Muzan-sama smiles, smugly pleased. Whatever they were aiming for, they got it.

“You’re wondering why you’re still alive,” Muzan-sama states with an easy confidence, and Kyojuro’s brow furrows slightly in confirmation. “I’ll be straightforward with you. The transformation you underwent has never happened to a demon before, and I want to figure out how it was possible. You’re the first demon to ever retain full recall of your human memories. Congratulations,” they say blandly.

Kyojuro opens his mouth, then closes it, clearly biting back a question. Muzan-sama snaps with irritation, “Speak.”

“Are you included in that number?” He asks cautiously, eyes darting to Akaza before returning to Muzan-sama.

There’s a tense moment of silence.

It’s one thing for Muzan-sama to admit it to the Upper Moons, most of which have been around for at least a century. It’s another thing entirely for them to admit it to someone who’s practically a stranger. The demon has an irrepressible perfectionist streak a continent wide, and an agitation that sparks every time they’re reminded of what they deem to be a massive flaw.

“Yes,” Muzan-sama answers, and Akaza releases a strained breath.

Then they tell Kyojuro to remove his top, and get to work with what they came here for.