Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The autumn weather is chilly, and Akaza no longer has the luxury of remaining unaffected by the fluctuations and extremities of temperature.

Turns out, he’s more susceptible to cold than Kyojuro is. Kyojuro tells him it’s because his body already runs cooler than normal. Either way, Akaza zips his coat right up to the collar as they exit the subway and head outside, shivering slightly at the bite in the air.

The sun is just beginning to set, so the late afternoon rays still lend a bit of waning warmth. The station is only a five minute walk from the apartment.

“Do you have your keys, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks when he sees the building down the street.

“I do!” Kyojuro takes out said keys from his pocket and raises it to show Akaza. “Do you not?”

Akaza laughs. “I lost them a long time ago.”

“Mine remained in my pocket despite Upper Moon Two nearly killing me!” Kyojuro replies. “We’re here!”

Akaza looks upon the apartment complex in front of them. They haven’t been back for over half a year, but outwardly, everything looks the exact same as he remembered. It’s strange to think about—so much has happened since then, yet for a brief second, Akaza can’t help but feel as though no time has passed. Still, he’s keenly aware that the last time he was here, they had been as Upper Moon Three and a Hashira. Now…

Kyojuro buzzes the front door open, holding it for Akaza. They head up to the third floor. It’s strenuous effort, because although the cast has been removed at last, Akaza’s still-healing leg remains stuck in a temporary brace.

A click of a lock. The faint noise as the knob turns. The creaking of hinges as the door swings open. Kyojuro reaches over and turns on the entryway light.

The interior, for lack of a better word, is incredibly dusty. Six months empty has resulted in a thin layer of dust over every available surface of the apartment. Akaza brushes his index finger over the edge of a counter which sends up a cloud, making him sneeze.

Kyojuro lets out an unrestrained laugh. “Did you know that you sound like a kitten when you sneeze?” he asks.

“I do not,” Akaza protests. Then, before he can feel properly offended, his body decides to betray him by sneezing again.

“I need to clean this up,” Akaza says decidedly, after he’s recovered and his nose no longer itches.

“We do!” Kyojuro agrees. “The apartment is in quite a state.”

“No, I will,” Akaza insists. “You’re teaching next week, aren’t you? You should get some rest. It’s not like I’m going to be doing much but studying Shinobu’s modules.”

“I can’t let you do all the chores alone, especially when your leg isn’t healed yet!”

Fondness blooms in Akaza’s chest as he looks at Kyojuro. His expression is bright with determination, telling Akaza that he probably won’t have much luck in trying to get Kyojuro to back down. So instead of arguing, Akaza wraps his arms around Kyojuro’s neck and pulls him close.

When they finally part, Akaza grins at Kyojuro. “A compromise,” he bargains. “You can help do chores, but you’re still not allowed to cook.”

Kyojuro relents, clearly holding no lost love for his own cooking.

A little while later, Kyojuro re-emerges from his bedroom after going to put his belongings away. “We shall go mattress shopping on the weekend!” he announces. “And we will also need a new bedframe to fit it. I have since realized that sleeping on a queen-sized bed is much more comfortable for two people.”

“Just sleeping, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, smiling at him innocuously.

“Primarily sleeping!” Kyojuro replies. Akaza pushes him lightly.

The fridge is empty, so they head out to the grocery store. Akaza used to only frequent the aisle with the cleaning supplies, and apart from a brief visit to buy Kyojuro coffee once, he’s never had a reason to venture into any other section. Now, he walks slowly alongside Kyojuro, who pushes the shopping cart.

“I do not know what to buy,” Kyojuro admits as they pass by the fresh produce. “What do you want to make for dinner?”

“Senjuro left me a few recipes,” he tells Kyojuro. “Maybe we can make beef sukiyaki? It’ll be pretty quick.”

“That sounds delicious!”

Turns out, while Akaza is better at cooking than Kyojuro, Kyojuro is still a better judge of how much food they actually need. He returns with the tofu and beef brisket just as Akaza is putting the eighteenth onion into the plastic bag.

“I am not sure Senjuro’s recipe requires so many onions!” Kyojuro exclaims.

Akaza stares at the onions he gathered, unable to generate an explanation for his own behavior. He can’t quite remember why he thought they needed eighteen onions. They end up with only three onions and a new plastic bag, since the old one looked like it was seconds from breaking under the weight. Kyojuro takes it from his hands and places it into the shopping cart.

“We also have to get lemons, black tea, and honey,” Akaza says after they finish finding all the ingredients for beef sukiyaki.

Kyojuro tilts his head. “What for?”

“Lemon tea,” Akaza explains. “I found a recipe earlier today. I want to try to make it.”

On the way to finding the black tea, they once again pass by the row that sells cleaning supplies. Remembering the current state of the apartment, Akaza drags Kyojuro down the aisle, who very kindly humors Akaza without protest.

He had initially set out looking for dusters, but the shelf with disinfectants catches Akaza’s eye instead. “It says it kills nearly a hundred-percent of germs, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. That seems effective. Perhaps it’ll be a good product to try.

“I think most disinfectant sprays say the same thing!”

“But this one says it works more effectively than other brands?”

“I’m sure other brands also claim the same thing,” Kyojuro replies honestly, apparently not concerned about bursting Akaza’s bubble about the miraculous efficacy of this particular disinfectant.

Akaza places it in the cart anyway. He asks Kyojuro if they should buy other brands in order to test which one really works best, to which Kyojuro replies that it’s time they go check-out. Then they have to double back because he had entirely forgotten about the dusters in wake of the disinfectants.

It’s already seven thirty when they finish buying all the groceries and make it back to the apartment. Kyojuro helps Akaza prepare, and Akaza learns that nothing particularly tragic happens if Kyojuro doesn’t have to engage in anything hands-on in terms of cooking. Soon, the apartment is filled with the aromatic scent of the broth as it simmers away cheerfully on the stove, with Kyojuro peering curiously over Akaza’s shoulder.

“Is it ready?” he asks.

“I haven’t put the udon in yet, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro goes to set the table instead.

Dinner is a simple affair, finally just the two of them. They’ve been eating in the mess hall of the Butterfly Estate for the past few months, so Akaza has just about forgotten what it’s like to share a meal with Kyojuro alone in the familiar comfort of the apartment. He’s very enthusiastic about complimenting Akaza’s cooking, and gleefully continues when Akaza finally starts getting embarrassed after one too many compliments.

Kyojuro insists on washing the dishes when they finish. Akaza decides to start making the lemon tea during this time.

He’s steeping the black tea when a few knocks sound on the door. Surprised, Akaza looks towards Kyojuro. He can’t think of anybody who would visit. Kyojuro appears confused as well.

“It’s me!” someone calls from outside.

It takes a few seconds for the voice to compute, and a few more for Akaza to limp across the kitchen and open the front door.

Ryota stands there, holding a plate of mochi in his hands.

Akaza stares down at him. Ryota gapes right back.

Finally, sounding shocked, he says, “What happened to you, Akaza-san?”

It takes a moment for Akaza to remember that he looks different from how Ryota would have last remembered seeing him. Akaza has long since become accustomed to his old features when he catches a glimpse of his reflection, but the black hair and blue eyes is still novel to Ryota.

He’s still thinking of a plausible excuse when he feels Kyojuro’s fingers brush over the small of his back as he joins them at the door. “Akaza decided to go back to his original hair colour!” Kyojuro explains.

Ryota frowns. “What about his eyes? They used to be yellow.”

“That is a very good question!” Kyojuro says without missing a single beat. “After the accident Akaza was in, something happened to his eyes, and now they’ve turned blue.”

Still appearing skeptical, Ryota stares hard at Akaza, like he’ll find the explanation if he looks long enough.

He gives up after ten seconds and directs his attention to Kyojuro instead, holding out the plate of mochi. “Mom saw you guys returning this afternoon, Rengoku-san,” he says. “We were making mochi today, so she wanted me to give you guys some.”

Akaza can hear the smile in Kyojuro’s voice. “Thank you, Ryota-kun! If you’re not in a hurry, Akaza is making us lemon tea. Do you want to stay and try it too?”

Ryota’s eyes are round. “Lemon tea?” he echoes. “Okay!” Clutching his plate of mochi, Ryota heads inside the apartment.

Kyojuro has apparently finished the dishes, because he sits at the dinner table with Ryota and talks to him while they wait. Akaza returns to making his lemon tea, now more determined than ever to ensure the final product is good.

Keeping the two of them in his periphery, Akaza listens in to the conversation. Ryota is bright-eyed and excited around Kyojuro as usual, his legs swinging underneath the chair as he updates Kyojuro on the happenings of his life. He shows off his brand-new watch, tells Kyojuro about the recent contestants on the cooking show they like to watch, and describes the various friends he’s made at school.

Kyojuro engages with equal enthusiasm that’s too genuine to be faked. Watching Kyojuro like this, there’s a warmth that bursts like fireworks, curling deep inside Akaza’s chest. The feeling is slightly strange but not entirely foreign, and it makes a home there.

A few minutes later, he carries over three glasses of lemon tea. Ryota pushes the plate of mochi towards Akaza when he sits down.

“You never told me how the mochi tasted last time, Akaza-san,” Ryota says. “Even though you said you don’t like sweet things, you should still give it another try!”

Akaza had not eaten a single mochi last time because he was a demon.

“Akaza actually likes sweets a lot,” Kyojuro interjects.

A gasp. “Really?”

“Kyojuro,” Akaza complains.

He picks out a pink mochi that is slightly more misshapen than the rest—probably one of the ones that Ryota made. Then he takes a bite.

Ryota is right. His mother is a great cook. It’s sweet but not too sweet, and the chewiness of the mochi skin is nicely offset by the filling inside.

Ryota hasn’t even touched his lemon tea in favor of trying to gauge Akaza’s reaction. Deciding to be nice, Akaza relents truthfully, “It’s really good.”

Excitement races across his features. “I made that one!” Ryota exclaims triumphantly.

Akaza pretends to inspect it. “Did you?”

The lemon tea is sweeter than Akaza remembers it being. But the taste is still rather similar to the one he had with Shinobu. It’s well-received by both Kyojuro and Ryota, and Ryota asks Akaza to make it again for him sometime soon.

“You cook better than Rengoku-san,” Ryota says sagely, with all the honest sincerity of a child.

Akaza smirks. “I know. You probably do too.”

Kyojuro shoots him a look over Ryota’s head, but doesn’t try to refute the claim.

Ryota checks his new watch after he finally finishes his entire glass. His eyes widen. “I should go back upstairs!” he exclaims. “I forgot!”

“I’ll walk you up,” Kyojuro offers.

When he returns a few minutes later, Akaza has moved onto the couch, sorting through some of the papers that Shinobu left him. He’s since made progress with a few of the modules on the laptop, although a bulk of them still remain untouched. Adjacent to the teaching certificate on the wall, Kyojuro’s slayer mask has also claimed a spot.

Kyojuro sits down next to him, and previous experience tells Akaza that it’s no use trying to study with Kyojuro so close to him—he’ll only end up distracted.

“Perhaps we should not have given a seven year old a large glass of tea right before he is supposed to sleep,” Kyojuro says thoughtfully. “I hope Fukuhara-san does not have trouble putting him to bed because of us.”

That was not a problem that had crossed Akaza’s mind until now. He sets his papers aside so he can twist on the couch and fully face Kyojuro. “How late do seven year olds typically sleep?” he asks.

Kyojuro appears to genuinely contemplate that question. “I don’t think I went to bed at a normal time when I was seven years old, so I’m afraid I am unsure!” There’s a brief pause before Kyojuro seems to remember something, because he looks at Akaza with his eye slightly narrowed. “Also, I certainly am not worse than Ryota-kun at cooking. I don’t think someone his age is allowed to use the stove!”

Akaza doesn’t bother holding back his laughter. “You’re still thinking about that? Also, I don’t think you should be allowed to use the stove.”

“You’ve never tried my cooking,” Kyojuro reasons, as if sight paired with the very obvious scent of burning wasn’t enough of a deterrent.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says with faux-patience, “even Senjuro kept telling me about how bad you were. It’s the only negative thing he has ever said about you.”

“Then you can just teach me!”

“It’s a hopeless cause, Kyojuro,” Akaza teases. He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind Kyojuro’s ear and grins at him. “I’m sure we can find much more productive uses for your time anyway.”

The taste of lemon tea still lingers pleasantly on Kyojuro’s lips when Akaza leans in to kiss him again.

***

Morning smells like coffee, and feels like the sun.

Kyojuro usually wakes up before Akaza, but he stays in bed regardless if time allows. Today is no different, with Kyojuro sitting against the backboard as he reads. There are fingers carding absentmindedly through Akaza’s hair, which slow to a halt when Akaza shifts from his initial position.

Squinting at the light that is filtering through the blinds, Akaza rolls over to peer fully at Kyojuro, who sets his book aside.

“Good morning,” he greets, smiling faintly. “You overslept!”

“What time is it?”

“Almost ten!”

Akaza rubs his eyes and sits up. Kyojuro has made himself a cup of coffee, which sits on the bedside table with a hint of precariousness to its balance. It looks like it’s one wrong move from toppling onto the ground, so Akaza crawls over Kyojuro’s outstretched legs in order to push the mug into safer territory.

Underneath the aroma of coffee, there’s…

“Did you burn something?” Akaza asks.

“I was hoping you would not notice! But yes, I did attempt to make breakfast this morning for when you woke up. Unfortunately we now have four less eggs than before, but no breakfast.”

A huff of laughter escapes Akaza. “You’re just proving my point that Ryota’s probably a better chef than you are, Kyojuro.”

He makes breakfast instead.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the day is how much it isn’t. Rather, it’s simple: Kyojuro has paperwork he needs to catch up on to prepare for when he returns to the school next week. They sit across from each other in comfortable silence: Akaza studying the modules on Shinobu’s laptop, the occasional scritch-scratch of Kyojuro’s pencil becoming a comfortable white noise in the background. Lunch is leftovers of the beef sukiyaki.

It’s in the afternoon, with Akaza making his second batch of lemon tea, that the realization suddenly hits him.

How many times had he overlooked moments like these with Koyuki and Keizo, until it was too late and he would have given everything to have it back? Quiet, everyday routines that he hadn’t fully appreciated the gift of when he had it; small, seemingly meaningless and casual conversations that he wishes he could still remember the topics of.

Back then, Hakuji had only just found the courage to hope for something better before it once again lay shattered at his feet. For three hundred years he had run from the possibility of hoping for something more than just endless violence and bloodshed, deluding himself into believing that killing over and over made him the pinnacle of strength.

This time, Akaza looks across at Kyojuro, and finds himself no longer afraid to hope.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says as he brings over their two glasses. The ice inside clinks cheerfully.

Kyojuro looks up, tilting his head and silently encouraging Akaza to speak. Once, Akaza had searched for the burn of his fighting spirit, ached to see him with his sword and uniform because he had convinced himself that all he wanted to have of Kyojuro was his strength. But Kyojuro is brilliant even like this: gold and red tumbling messily over his shoulders, dressed in an oversized hoodie, a leg pulled up to his chest as he rests his chin on it. Akaza has seen so much of him, yet he thinks he still hasn’t even gotten close to remotely enough.

“Thank you,” he says.

Confusion crosses Kyojuro’s expression. “What are you thanking me for, Akaza! You are the one who made the lemon tea.”

“Not—not the lemon tea, Kyojuro.”

“Then what for?”

Akaza settles down on the chair. “Keizo once told me that in my own time, I would be the one helping people,” he says. “I wouldn’t be trying to do that now, if it weren’t for you.”

A smile touches the corner of Kyojuro’s lips, his expression softening. “Akaza,” he says. “It is not because of me, you disregard yourself too much! You’re here because even though you were a demon, you were once a kind person as well. That's what I realized and why I decided to give you a chance in the first place.”

Akaza blinks. “What do you mean?”

Looking fondly exasperated, Kyojuro shakes his head. “I’m sure you still remember Nomura-san,” he says. “She was my colleague! You saved her life.”

Right—there had been a demon at Kyojuro’s school. “I saved her because you wanted me to, Kyojuro. I didn’t actually care about her.”

“And Ryota-kun?” Kyojuro presses. “You watched him for an evening when I wasn’t home, do you remember? You even gave him a blanket when he fell asleep! When his father hurt him, you were also the one who comforted him and treated his injuries. I thought that perhaps a demon that saved others and had the capacity to care wasn’t much different from a human after all.”

“All of that is true,” Akaza finally relents. “But I guess what I mean is… there were so many people who loved and helped me even if I didn’t deserve it. I’m just—grateful.”

Kyojuro tilts his head. “Tell me about them, then.”

So Akaza does. He tells Kyojuro about all the details he hadn’t been able to offer before; about the years spent with his father, who taught him how to read and write on his better days. He tells Kyojuro about Keizo’s patience as he trained Hakuji with his Soryu style, who not only instructed him on how to fight, but what to fight for. About Koyuki and how she didn’t care about his criminal tattoos and trusted him wholeheartedly from the very beginning.

(He also tells Kyojuro about how Shinobu was merciless and unrelenting in teaching him Total Concentration Breathing, because beneath her cheerful smiles and light tone, she’s one of the most willful people Akaza has ever met and will probably ever meet. On the bedside table sits a letter sealed with a butterfly sticker, containing wishes, reminders and a new chance.)

((Then he starts to describe Kyojuro until Kyojuro is laughing and moves to shove Akaza’s shoulder and they accidentally spill a cup of lemon tea.))

***

It’s quite late in the evening when they all meet up at the restaurant, so Uzui makes a joke about it being past Tokito’s bedtime.

Tokito looks up at Uzui with an emotionless expression on his face. “I wasn’t the one who skipped out fighting at the Infinity Fortress,” he deadpans, the joke apparently not well-received. Or perhaps this is his way of joking back? Kyojuro is having a bit of difficulty telling.

“Let’s not argue!” Kanroji interrupts, spreading her arms out and stepping between the two of them. “Ah, I’m so hungry, we should hurry and go inside so we can order!”

“Yeah, I’m hungry too. You couldn’t get off work earlier?” Shinazugawa grumbles to Uzui. “Who the fuck eats dinner at ten?”

“I do!” Kyojuro says. He’s eaten dinner at worse times before. Like four in the morning.

Tomioka trails behind them, silent as usual.

“Tomioka-san and Shinazugawa-san took the same taxi!” Kanroji says when they sit down at the booth between Kyojuro and Uzui. “It’s so nice to see everyone getting along so well now! You two were always squabbling at Hashira meetings.”

Kyojuro can’t recall how Tomioka had ever squabbled, since he usually didn’t speak a single word.

Uzui raises an eyebrow. “I’m shocked Tomioka survived the journey here.”

Shinazugawa scoffs. “We bumped into each other. Cheaper fare that way.”

They order food and drinks. Both Tokito and Kyojuro get fruit sodas.

The conversation is light, mundane. Kanroji has enrolled in university and classes are apparently much more difficult than she expected. The Kamado siblings are currently living with Tomioka. Shinazugawa grumbles about his brother being a pain, but there’s fondness behind the rough edges of his tone. Uzui has been managing a branch of his father’s company.

“Oyakata-sama said I should go to school,” Tokito says as he prods at his food with his chopsticks. He pauses, like he’s about to speak again. Then he does not elaborate.

“So, did you?” Kyojuro asks after one too many seconds of silence have elapsed.

“Not yet,” Tokito finally says. “Maybe I’ll go to the same school that Tanjiro attends and you teach at, Rengoku-san.”

“Well,” Kyojuro replies, “if you learn academics as fast as you managed to pick up your sword skills, you may be able to graduate highschool before this year ends, Tokito!”

Tokito smiles faintly, sipping at his soda.

A little while later, on their fourth round of drinks, Tomioka clutches his liquor to his chest and leans over the table so he can regard all of them with a somber look. His expression is no different than usual, though his face is a bit red.

“Do any of you wish,” he says, and despite his quiet voice, it’s still audible over the buzz of the restaurant, “that the rest of them could still be here?”

Shinazugawa abandons his shot glass to directly take a swig out of his bottle. “Fuck,” he laughs, but he sounds angry. “Isn’t that what everyone here wishes for?”

In addition to all their patrol regions spread out, things had been so busy when they were Hashira that there had simply been no time to get together like this. Now, with the chance, they’re three people short.

Kyojuro does not know how to respond, because no matter what he says, what they’re looking for is less about the words than it is about who is saying them. And Himejima, Kocho and Iguro are gone.

“I miss Iguro-san,” Kanroji sniffles. “I never got to tell him that I liked him…and I wanted to go see the cherry blossoms with him one spring.” She hiccups. “I think about it and I get so sad, but I don’t think Iguro-san would want me to be sad, so I get sad that I’m sad.” Kanroji nudges Kyojuro. “Rengoku-san?”

“Yes!”

“Rengoku-san,” she repeats, then giggles a little. “Rengoku-san, Rengoku-san… do you have stories of Iguro-san? You knew him since you were both little, right?”

“Indeed!” Kyojuro replies. “Although we did not spend an incredible amount of time together.”

“Anything works,” Kanroji responds. “Please, Rengoku-san?”

Kyojuro obliges and tells her all the details he can remember from his first meeting with Iguro. He hopes she’s too drunk to notice that there’s a lump in his throat by the end of it and how it’s much more difficult to speak.

Sure enough, Kanroji slumps over soon, fully passed out.

“Kocho had the best tolerance out of all of us,” Shinazugawa says suddenly. “We went drinking together once. She was fucking insane.”

Kyojuro suddenly remembers the time Kocho and Akaza had been drinking. They had been surrounded by a criminal amount of alcohol by the time Kyojuro came downstairs, yet Kocho had remained impressively lucid. The memory makes him feel a bit dizzy, even though he hasn’t had a drop of liquor.

“We should meet up more often.” Tokito peers over Kyojuro to look at the rest of them—all in various stages of intoxication, Kanroji already passed out. “Even if we aren’t Hashira anymore.”

“Indeed!” Uzui booms, much louder than usual. “Next time, I’ll try to get off work early so you can still make it to bed before nine!”

Tokito flicks a bottle cap at Uzui. It hits him on the forehead and leaves a faint red mark.

By the time Kyojuro decides to stop the rest of them from drinking more, Kanroji has finally awoken. She has apparently been clutching a pair of chopsticks in her fist this whole time, and it takes both him and Shinazugawa to pry the chopsticks from her fingers—but not before they end up snapping it. Kyojuro apologizes to the restaurant owner while Shinazugawa seems to have decided to start yelling at Tomioka for breaking the chopsticks despite Tomioka being nowhere close to the scene of the crime, and also missing a functional arm.

Kanroji pulls out her phone. “Let’s… trade numbers!” she slurs. “Since I think we’re all friends now! I only have Rengoku-san’s contact out of all of you…and Iguro-san’s…the rest are on the Kasugai app, but I don’t think we’ll use that much anymore.”

It’s a fumble trading numbers, especially with everyone very much intoxicated. Uzui mocks Tomioka for having “the least flamboyant background ever” (admittedly, the black screen is quite plain), while Kanroji keeps on inputting Iguro’s old number rather than her own.

“…Shinazugawa always refused to contact me on the Kasugai app,” Tomioka says solemnly when Shinazugawa is entering his number, “I think he has me blocked.”

“The fuck are you going on about?” Shinazugawa grumbles. “I just ignored you. Not blocked you. You can’t even block a person on the Kasugai app. Kocho explicitly told me that it was impossible after I tried and failed to block that little dipshit who’s currently living with you. But you better not send me useless shit or I will block your number.”

It’s nearing one when they finally file out of the restaurant. A unanimous decision is made to send Tokito home on the first taxi they call, while Shinazugawa and Tomioka depart together because they live in the same direction. Kanroji announces that she’ll head to the bus stop, leaving Kyojuro and Uzui standing at the curb.

“I don’t live far from here and I didn’t drink, so I’ll walk back!” Kyojuro tells Uzui. “Will you be alright going home on your own?”

Uzui laughs. “We’ve been fighting demons for years, Rengoku. I can get home despite being a little tipsy.”

“I think you’re a lot tipsy!” Kyojuro responds. He eyes the way Uzui is swaying.

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m sure your boyfriend is anxiously waiting at home for your return.”

“I doubt Akaza is worried about me getting home safe, now that there are no demons!”

“Yeah, he’s definitely anxious for something else,” Uzui replies.

“He is probably asleep,” Kyojuro says, deciding to diffuse the conversation before Uzui makes it his goal to pry into details Kyojuro would rather keep between himself and Akaza. “He sleeps earlier than I do!”

Uzui makes a disbelieving noise. Either way, his taxi finally arrives, and Kyojuro makes sure he tells the driver the correct destination before shutting the door after him.

“We should meet up more often, Rengoku,” Uzui calls after rolling down the window. Then he pauses, deliberates for a moment, and finally corrects, “Kyojuro.”

There’s a cocktail mixture of too many emotions in his chest from tonight. The final result tastes just a little bittersweet.

He smiles at Tengen. “Alright,” Kyojuro agrees.

***

It’s dark when Kyojuro and Akaza finally get off the subway and reach the house, but the light that spills through the window is warm.

Snow from a couple hours ago has settled on the ground, causing them to leave behind fresh tracks on the sidewalk. While Akaza never vocalizes whether or not he feels cold, he had very readily accepted Kyojuro’s scarf, which he now has pulled high over his chin as he buries his cold-flushed cheeks into the fabric.

Kyojuro stomps the snow off of his shoes after they mount the steps up to the door. He has just raised his fist to knock when the door is already being thrown open and he’s greeted by Senjuro’s bright smile.

“Nii-san!” he exclaims. “Ah, Akaza-san, you came this time!”

Kyojuro beams at his brother. “It smells good!” he says. Something pleasant wafts from the direction of the kitchen.

“Father helped cook,” Senjuro replies. “We’re just about finished.”

Although it’s been months, Kyojuro still has to temper down his surprise after hearing that. He tries to come visit more often now that he’s no longer occupied by his duties as a Hashira, and while family meals still end up awkward more often than not, he can tell that Shinjuro is putting genuine effort into reconnecting with them. Still, Kyojuro hadn’t realized how much he had grown accustomed to expect coldness from his father until the sudden absence of it. And it turns out that warmth is a very strange sensation to acclimate to when it has been winter for so long.

But it’s a change that Kyojuro doesn’t mind getting used to.

They take off their coats and head into the kitchen. The walls of the hallway are less bare than before—Kyojuro remembers being surprised when he came back one day only to see that the family portrait of the four of them had been hung up again. Now, Akaza pauses briefly to peer at said portrait, a smile touching his lips.

Kyojuro’s father is standing over the stove when they come inside. He looks over. “We’re almost ready,” he says. Then his gaze travels towards Akaza. Kyojuro is very much aware that they haven’t ever talked properly, not since their first (and only) meeting—which had apparently been nothing short of a disaster. Akaza’s fond enough of Senjuro and vice versa, but his father… Kyojuro eyes them with a bit of apprehension.

Surprisingly, Akaza is the one who extends the olive branch. He shifts his weight. “Can I help with anything?” he asks.

“We just need to finish setting the table,” Shinjuro replies. “Senjuro, you can show Akaza where we keep the plates and utensils and bring them over.”

As Senjuro and Akaza disappear into the dining room, Kyojuro moves over to peer at the broth that’s simmering on the stove. It smells familiar.

“Is that mother’s favorite soup!” he exclaims.

Stirring at it, his father nods. “I learned how to cook all her favorite dishes when she got sick,” he replies, brusque but not harsh. Then his voice softens. “You used to enjoy eating it when you were young, too. Although you practically enjoyed eating everything.”

“You cooked it better than her!” Kyojuro recalls.

“Ruka was never the best chef,” Shinjuro says, smiling faintly. Then he straightens. “Grab four bowls for me, Kyojuro, it’s ready.”

When Kyojuro carries the bowls of broth into the dining room, he realizes that his father and brother had cooked an entire table full of food.

They haven’t celebrated New Year’s Eve like this since… well, since his mother had still been healthy. With his father away on duty and Ruka growing more and more ill, Kyojuro finds that he can’t pinpoint the last time his family gathered for such an elaborate meal together.

Senjuro beams. “We made all your favorite dishes, Nii-san,” he says.

“I can see!” Kyojuro exclaims. “It all looks so delicious!”

He can’t say dinner is the most tranquil affair, because although Kyojuro can tell that Akaza is trying his very best to be polite, some tension remains lingering in the air. Still, by the end, Akaza and his father manage to exchange three sentences with civility and no fight has broken out, so Kyojuro counts it as a success.

They all help clean up and wash the dishes together, then move into the backyard to watch the fireworks. Senjuro brings out a tray of hojicha lattes to combat the cold as they wait. The temperature has dropped even more since they first arrived: Kyojuro’s breath billows out in front of him in puffs of white and Akaza is huddled against Kyojuro like he’s trying to keep warm.

It’s a strange thought: exactly a year ago, they had watched the fireworks together too. Akaza had scoffed at him, derisive in the face of what he claimed to be human sentimentality.

The strong have nothing to lose, Akaza had said, and back then, Kyojuro wondered if he truly had nothing to lose, or if he had already lost everything. Yet now, all of Akaza’s unknowns that Kyojuro had once struggled to navigate and make sense of have become dear to him.

No symmetrical dark lines ink his face anymore. His hair is a rich black, and while Akaza’s eyes don’t glow inhumanly in the dark, the light on the porch is enough to illuminate the clear blue of them. No unexplainable fury lines the bite of his words, no lost grief in the tremble of his fingers that used to always curl into fists. Rather, Akaza’s expression is open and unburdened as he stares up at the sky.

“Do you remember,” Kyojuro asks, turning to Akaza, “when you asked me if I wanted to watch the fireworks again with you again next year?”

Akaza laughs. “Of course, how could I forget?”

“Your wish is granted!”

Senjuro looks over at them. “Akaza-san was the one you watched the fireworks with last year, Nii-san?” he asks, looking torn between surprise and acceptance-in-hindsight. “You just told me you watched them with a friend.”

“Yes!” Kyojuro replies. “It was not technically a lie, although I don’t know if Akaza would have considered us friends back then.”

Akaza looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, then shakes his head, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

It’s not long after that the first of the fireworks race towards the sky, bursting into sparks and making the night resplendent in color. Akaza’s hand finds his, fingers interlacing with Kyojuro’s.

“Happy New Year!” Senjuro says brightly, and the words are echoed back to him.

They stay outside until the fireworks finally fizzle to a slow stop, until only the faint gray of smoke lingers in the sky. Kyojuro can feel Akaza shivering slightly beside him, even if he doesn’t make any complaints about the cold.

“Let’s go inside!” he suggests to his father and brother, who both agree.

“I set up a futon for Akaza-san in your room, Nii-san,” Senjuro says.

Kyojuro decides not to tell his brother that he can easily share his bed with Akaza, since it’s the same size as the old one back in their apartment. Instead, he smiles and thanks Senjuro, who bids them good night and heads upstairs. His father also retires to his room after another gruff wish of Happy New Year, leaving only Akaza and Kyojuro left in the kitchen.

“Are you tired?” Kyojuro asks. “We can go to bed if you are!”

Akaza shakes his head. “I’m okay, Kyojuro.” There’s a glint in his eye when he grins, playful. “I want to see the pictures of you when you were young. You must have them somewhere, right?”

Feeling warm, Kyojuro laughs as quietly as possible. “Here I was, assuming you thought pictures were just foolish human sentimentality, Akaza!”

He receives a glare in return that holds no real heat. Kyojuro gathers a few photo albums from the bookshelf. They carry it up the stairs to Kyojuro’s room so they can look at them together.

“You were so cute as a kid,” Akaza says, peering at the pictures. His eyes widen when he sees the photo of Kyojuro holding his first bokken. “How old were you here?”

“Five!”

“Five,” Akaza echoes with a hint of disbelief. “You started training when you were five?”

“A skill is easier to acquire the younger you learn it,” Kyojuro reasons. “Besides, I thought it was exciting! I always loved watching my father perform the Flame Breathing sword forms. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, so training was fun for me.”

“Well,” Akaza says, not bothering to keep a hint of indignation out of his voice, “you clearly did much better than following in his footsteps.”

Kyojuro laughs and flips the page.

There are a lot more photos in the albums than Kyojuro remembered them being. Then again, he didn’t frequently look at them. It had always carved an ache into his chest to be reminded of the springs of his fondest memories, only to be greeted by the winter of reality.

But now, he realizes that there’s no hurt caused by the dichotomy of past and present. Kyojuro smiles as Akaza points out a picture of Kyojuro dressed for his first day of school and asks if he can keep it.

It takes an hour for them to finish the first album, then another for the second. At that point, Kyojuro suggests that they go to sleep so they can wake up at a reasonable time the next morning. (“We can look at the rest tomorrow,” he promises Akaza.)

A few minutes later when Akaza is curled up close to Kyojuro under the blankets, Kyojuro touches his shoulder.

“I just realized, I never told you,” he starts, “what I saw that time when Lower Moon One put me in the dream.”

Akaza shifts slightly so they’re pretty much nose-to-nose. “And what did you dream about, Kyojuro?”

Even though it’s nearly a year later, the details of Lower Moon One’s dream are something Kyojuro can recall with clarity. “It was rather simple!” he says. “You were human, waiting for me at the mall near home. We were meeting up with my brother to watch a movie together. I’m afraid I didn’t get to dream of anything further than that!”

“Oh,” Akaza replies. He blinks slowly a few times, clearly drowsy. A smile crosses his face, and something syrupy and sweet blooms in Kyojuro’s chest. “Well, we could recreate that. Next week. If Senjuro’s free.”

He says it easily, because—it is that simple now. Kyojuro has known Akaza under the sun for longer than he has not. It’s a bit of a strange thought to recall that back then, the dream had been nothing short of impossible. Upper Moon Three, a human. Yet here he was.

“That sounds nice!” Kyojuro replies. “Then, perhaps I shall ask Senjuro tomorrow.” He leans in close, lips brushing over Akaza’s forehead in a light kiss. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, Kyojuro,” Akaza breathes softly. It sounds like the promise of another one. And another. And another.

***

Kyojuro usually makes an attempt to get home before seven so that he and Akaza can eat dinner at a reasonable time.

Demon slaying is no longer the reason for his attempts to go awry, but today, he still ended up caught at school for longer than usual. The first round of midterms has been completed, so Kyojuro has a heavy stack of papers to grade. Tanjiro had also been talking to Kyojuro about possibly taking supplementary lessons. Apparently defeating Kibutsuji did not also lend a hand to catching up on missed schoolwork, and he explains with a bit of sad chagrin that his mother is no longer there to help teach him the concepts he doesn’t understand.

Kyojuro’s watch reads seven forty when he leaves the school. His phone buzzes.

7:41pm, Akaza
>Kyojuro
>The fridge is empty and I forgot to buy groceries
>Should I go get something
>What do you want to eat

7:41pm, Rengoku Kyojuro
>We can get take-out today! I’ll be home soon.

He receives an agreement from Akaza.

Kyojuro decides to simply pick up food from a restaurant while he’s passing by—it seems more convenient, and he knows Akaza’s usual order. He thanks the old lady as she hands him the paper bag ten minutes later, then hurries home.

It’s dark enough that the street lamps have all turned on, casting puddles of light on the sidewalk. Snow has been sparse this winter, though the angry gray of the clouds that overcast the sky suggests that perhaps there will be another carpet of white on the ground soon.

Kyojuro turns down one last street, the apartment in sight.

The February weather is very much still more winter than spring, a bite in the air that lapses beyond the comfort of crisp coolness. Yet Akaza is sitting on the steps that lead to the apartment, only wearing one of Kyojuro’s sweaters instead of a proper jacket, even though they both know he gets cold easily.

He’s also clutching a handful of notes in hand, unwavering concentration scribbled on his face as he goes through them. It’s only when Kyojuro draws closer that Akaza looks up and his expression brightens.

“You’re back, Kyojuro,” he says. He’s smiling in that unintentional way of his, the sort that he never notices but softens his features entirely.

“What were you doing outside, Akaza?” Kyojuro asks, eying the thin fabric of the sweater. “It’s so cold!”

Akaza blinks owlishly. “I thought we were going to go buy dinner? I was waiting for you so we could go together.”

Kyojuro holds up the paper bag to show him. “I grabbed it on the way back!”

“Oh,” Akaza says, then he grins lopsidedly. “It’s okay. I was falling asleep anyway, sitting out here woke me up.”

“You’re going to catch a cold like this if you stay outside without being dressed for the weather,” Kyojuro chides, knowing that Akaza probably won’t heed to the warning.

He receives an unapologetic look in return. “Don’t worry,” Akaza tells him. He pushes himself to his feet, stretching languidly as he smirks at Kyojuro, and leans right into Kyojuro’s personal space. “I have a strong immune system.”

Kyojuro unsuccessfully bites down a laugh. “Enough bravado,” he teases. “I can see you shivering, let’s go home!”

Akaza tucks his notes underneath his arm so he can fish out the keys from his pocket and press them to the buzzer. He holds the door open for Kyojuro.

His shoulder brushes lightly against Akaza’s as Kyojuro steps inside.

They must’ve done this a thousand times before. As a newly moved-in night shift nurse and a highschool history teacher. As Upper Moon Three and the Flame Hashira. As a demon and a human.

Something about the thousand-and-first time makes Kyojuro feel warmer than usual.

The door clicks softly shut behind them.