Summary: Sasori’s New Year plans do not go as expected. (SasoThird).
for @jashinist-femme
READ ON AO3
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“It’s for good luck,” Sasori lied, staring at the Third Kazekage.
Somewhere in the distance, a firework cracked, and fizzled. Pink flashed across their faces— then green. Blue. It glinted against the kazekage’s ceremonial jewelry, draped over white robes, and dazzling in its brightness. Beautiful. Gorgeous.
Art.
Another rainbow of colors flared over them. The sky snapped and crackled. Finally, Third nodded.
“Very well. One kiss,” he agreed, mouth twitching. “For good luck, and nothing more.”
Sasori swallowed. “For good luck,” he repeated. He swallowed again. “Nothing more.”
“And nothing less.”
Without further elaboration, Third stepped closer, cupping Sasori’s cheeks between his palms. A thumb brushed against the flushed skin there.
“May the gods favor you in all years to come,” Third declared.
Sasori nodded mutely.
He had dreamed of this moment. Had it planned, down to the very last detail. Third would lean in, head tilted at the perfect 45° angle, to brush his lips against Sasori’s. They’d hold the kiss, for a respectable 5 to 10 seconds—not too much, not too little. And then—
And then they’d part.
Sasori would be the first to retreat, breath heavy. He’d peek up at Third, lashes fluttering, chest heaving, to catch his eyes.
And then… and then, maybe…
Something warm touched his brow. Warm, rough, wet— lips beaten by the desert wind.
Sasori’s eyes went wide. His jaw dropped. Third held the kiss for 5 seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Long enough to be indecent.
The clocks ticked midnight. The crowd cheered, releasing hundred and hundreds of lanterns into the night sky, each tied to a wish. A want. A desire.
And then it was over. Third inched away, expression neutral.
“There,” he said, as Sasori’s heart thundered.
There. That was all.
Third reached for his champagne glass. “If you’ll excuse me—,”
Wait, Sasori tried. He jerked stiffly towards Third. A white sleeve fluttered just beyond his reach.
Don’t you dare go. Stay!
It was too late, however. Third was already gone.
“Coward,” Sasori muttered.
… fine. Fine! This was fine.
He turned the memory in his head, over and over and over. The hands on his cheeks. The press of lips against his skin. The slip of heat, right above his brain. The electricity. The spark.
He’s mine, Sasori decided. He lifted his gaze to the moon, nearly eclipsed by lanterns.
The wheel of time kept churning. Seconds passed, fading into minutes, into hours. He made a wish.
Summary: Sasori decides to do a favor for the fairy king, presently known as Third. Who owes who is a subject of scholarly debate.
Warnings: sexual quid pro quo, power difference, sasori is plotting and third goes along with it, oral, adult things, so forth. Please read part one first.
For @naruto-smut-monday prompts: rare pair / exhibitionism
Worth a Head
<<<< part one
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Third was in no hurry. Sasori was exhilarating, he was thrilling, and he had nothing better to do.
And, it felt good. So, so, good.
Fuck.
Sasori took in another inch. Third let out a shameless moan.
Victories.
Hiding a smirk, he carried on, until the cockhead brushed against the back of his throat. Third moaned again, rocking forward, pushing past the natural gag reflex, and settling in the deepest, warmest, part of Sasori.
“Perfect,” Third murmured, petting the soft, red hair. Sasori peeked up at him, mouth stuffed with cock. Precum dribbled over his chin, down the pale line of his neck. His face was flushed beautifully, with irritation, lust, or both. Third couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. “Do you like it?”
Sasori’s eyes narrowed. Then, he gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. The state of his trousers said more than enough.
“Yes,” Third hissed, bucking up, pink lips sealed firmly around him. “Touch yourself.”
He fucked that mouth slowly, exhaling through his teeth as Sasori slurped; balls tightening, as his eyes rolled skywards. Only the clink of a buckle brought him back to earth.
Sasori looked him in the eyes, slipping a hand into his pants. I’m not enjoying this, his stare seemed to say, even as he palmed himself, breath hitching.
For the briefest moment, his jaw slackened—in a groan, or a mewl or a whine—and Third buried himself inside Sasori, holding him as he stuttered and jerked, cum gushing in waves. True to his word, Sasori drank it to the very last drop.
Whatever magic governed these exchanges, it set to work, binding them both in gossamer threads, sewing heart to heart, bone to bone, flesh to flesh, tangling their souls together.
He released him with a reluctant pop!, licking him clean, before tucking Third back into his robes, and tying them in place.
“All done,” Sasori declared, as though he had just finished a boring task. He made to move away, only to be pushed onto the ground, clawed fingers wrapped around his erection.
“You belong to me, now,” Third murmured. Sasori scoffed, then choked, as Third moved, pumping quickly.
The contract was complete.
At once, Sasori gasped, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Then he gasped, and shuddered, Third collapsing into his neck, breathing harshly. Magic itched at the edge of his mind, ever-present, permanent.
Of all the hundreds of thousands of favors Third had given previously, this one felt different. This one was more.
He knew that Sasori, despite looking annoyed, was actually quite pleased, just as Sasori knew that Third, who seemed sated, could easily go for another round. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Wiping off his hand, Third nuzzled into Sasori, inhaling the scent of sweat. It stung sweetly. Like salt, he observed, inhaling again. Familiar.
Sasori let him do whatever. “You owe me double,” he halfheartedly jabbed, eyes rolling skywards.
The sun was gone. Vanished. In its place, the Seeliebane quivered and crawled, wriggling like a nest of snakes. It grew towards them in sharp, jerking spikes, grappling over each other, groaning, and creaking.
It was time to go.
“I should leave,” Sasori suddenly said.
Third didn’t move. “Mm. Probably.”
His nose tickled Sasori’s throat, making him twitch. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, he decided, hands curling into fists. That made it dangerous.
Sasori pushed him. “I’m going.” When Third didn’t budge, Sasori shoved him again. “Hey. Did you hear me?”
“No.”
“You clearly heard me.”
“Did I?” Third chuckled. “The answer is no. You’re staying.”
“…”
“Perhaps not at this exact location—”
A sharp elbow jabbed him in the ribs. Third wheezed.
Sasori slid out from under him. Standing up, he smoothly dusted himself off, grimacing at his cum-soaked pants. This wasn’t in the plan. Damn it.
“We’re done here,” he told Third. “I’m leaving.”
“That’s, ah- inadvisable.”
“I don’t care.”
“Hm.”
Sitting up, Third coolly fixed his topknot, as seeliebane shot through the earth. Sasori lunged to the side, barely dodging another, bending backwards and flipping over the sharp edges— only for black teeth to snap around him, swallowing Sasori whole.
When the dust cleared, Third rose to his feet, not a hair out of place or speck of dirt to be seen. He leaned over the jagged cluster of iron, inspecting a piece of shredded fabric, rubbing it between a thumb and index finger. His hand came away bloodied, burning like iron.
That made Third pause.
“You’re human,” he realized.
Trapped in a cage of seeliebane, Sasori smirked icily, and said nothing.
“I like humans,” Third added.
Sasori’s smirk slipped away, splattering on the ground.
“Get lost,” he spat—hissing as the iron squeezed around him, cutting deeper. Ripped clothes hung off his frame, exposing slices of bare shoulders. A line of red cut across a slim thigh, dribbling over a knee, and splashed at his feet. An exquisite sight.
On any other day, Third might stop to admire it— might pin him through, and peel him apart— cataloguing and labeling him— like a bug in a shadow box.
Today, Third dismissed the seeliebane with a flick. Sasori collapsed in a heap of gasping, wet coughs.
Third paused. He touched his chest, and frowned.
Something, there…
Third cleared his throat. “Our debt is already quite large. No need to compound interest,” he snapped his fingers. “The dungeon, if you would.”
At that signal, several guards appeared. Two grabbed Sasori by the arms, yanking him up. By the troubled looks on their faces, it was clear that they’d seen more than enough.
“I have a strict schedule,” Third offered, not at all apologetic. “Laws to write, important people to entertain. You understand.” He scanned Sasori again, pausing at his cock-swollen lips. “I’ll visit soon,” the king promised.
Sasori’s lips pursed. His stare slid from side to side as he scrutinized his captors, considering their blind spots, their weapons, and the knife in his boot.
Killing them would be easy.
Instead, Sasori sniffed haughtily.
“Fine,” he bit. “Don’t be late. Remember, I own you.”
Third’s brows shot up. In a flash, the guards unsheathed their swords, raising them to Sasori’s throat.
Sasori locked eyes with Third. “I own you,” he repeated, as Third stepped closer, into the flat of a blade, trapping it between them.
“Do you, now?” he asked, softly, sharply. His fingers slid over the length of the blade, toying with the light, the metal, the edge. “In any other context, that would be cause for execution.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Third murmured.
It was true. He was a king, a title, a number— mercy meant nothing to him. Maybe, it was a pretty thought, and perhaps, it had a few uses. More often than not, it was a liability, hinting at weaknesses that others might exploit—as they always did. As they’d always do.
Only, this scorpion owed him.
Without a second thought, Third plucked the sword up and away, letting it dangle by the hilt.
“Must I repeat myself?” he sighed, and when he exhaled, all his warmth drifted away, leaving a chill in its place.
Against his will, Sasori shivered.
“Baki,” Third began, his voice steady as the blade. “Dungeon. Now.”
A giant hand clamped onto Sasori’s neck, making him jump.
“Allow me to assist,” rumbled a half-veiled man— Baki. captain of the guard, the king’s trusted personal escort, Baki. The one person who, by all accounts, was not supposed to be here— with all of the king’s men— who was not in the plan— who had seen it all— Baki. That one. Him.
Perched on the edge of a cliff, Deidara opened his hand, and a bird fluttered out, landing on an outstretched finger. Then, in one swift move, he crushed it in a fist, clay oozing between his knuckles.
“Just curious.” Deidara rubbed his palms together, rolling the clay into a round ball. A hand split open, teeth shining, and snapped shut— bones twisting, lips smacking, as it chewed. Drool dripped on the ground in thick, white globs. “You always seem to have an opinion, hmm?”
“I don’t have opinions. I am correct,” Sasori retorted.
“… right,” Deidara deadpanned. “Whatever you say, master.”
“Brat,” Sasori growled. “Watch your tone.”
“Mhm.”
“I mean it.”
“Mm!”
They fell quiet, then, watching the narrow path beneath them, as they had for the past three hours. Their target had yet to appear.
A waste of time, Sasori had muttered, more than once. Deidara preferred to call it an opportunity.
“So, what do you think?” Deidara nudged. “About—,” here he gestured, vaguely, at the sky. “Soulmates. Romance. Love,” he added, with a snort.
He was completely and thoroughly ignored.
Deidara flopped back with a huff. “Whatever.” He threw both arms high up into the air, dark against the outline of the sun. “Not that it matters, hmm? Since only dolls like you,” he further goaded. A dark cloud passed over Sasori.
“—they’re puppets,” he muttered. “Puppets.”
“Oh, so you can hear?”
“Don’t push me.”
“I’m just curious! What do you think, hmm?”
Sasori silenced him with a withering look.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said, turning his back on Deidara. His insides clicked, and rattled, and churned, metal grinding in frustration.
Soulmates…
“It’s useless,” he found himself saying.
Deidara perked up. “Useless?” he nudged Hiruko with his foot. “Wanna explain?”
The new episode was devastating, and gave me a lot of Senjuro feelings. That poor boy! This is a small little bittersweet piece set in my tanren a/b/o series, though it isn't very explicit about it.
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Devastated didn’t even cover how Senjuro had felt hearing the news that his brother had died.
Kyojuro had always been so unbreakable. Both in spirit and in body. Whereas Senjuro struggled with the basics, Kyojuro took to swordsmanship with the ease of someone who had been born to do it. Kyojuro’s natural talent overshadowed Senjuro by miles. If they had been different people, he imagined he might have felt envious. He might have resented him.
But Kyojuro wasn’t like that. He supported Senjuro when he struggled and lifted him up when he did well. Never an unkind word left his mouth. He was Senjuro’s hero.
And then he was dead.
Senjuro dreamed about it for weeks. Kyojuro’s brief and temporary passing had been devastating for their family. Shinjuro became even more volatile and violent; all their servants were turned away, forcing Senjuro to pick up the slack if he didn’t want their household to fall into disarray when he could barely hold it together himself.
Senjuro often dreamed of that moment when the crow calmly delivered the news. He remembered his knees trembling, and then hitting the ground hard. He remembered the words clamoring in his throat, trying to find room to speak, but the only sound that left him was a quiet, hitching sob.
Then, after learning he was alive, his sobs had been loud and ugly. He had cried tears of relief and joy for hours. He had just been so, so happy. So relieved he felt gutted by it.
It’s been a while since I had that dream, Senjuro thought as he prepared two cups of tea. He would have prepared a third, but his father had shouted at him to leave him alone that morning. Senjuro couldn’t find it in himself to blame him. Kyojuro had confiscated all the alcohol in the house the last time he’d been there, and Shinjuro hadn’t gone out to get anymore.
“Brother?” he called as he entered the hallway and headed towards one of the southern facing rooms. “Tea is ready!”
“Perfect!” Kyojuro shouted, his voice carrying. It brought a smile to Senjuro’s face. Whenever Kyojuro came home, he made the place feel alive. “Hurry up, Senjuro! I’m parched!”
Senjuro hurried as instructed and moved into the room. He shifted the plate in one hand and then moved to close the door, but then Kyojuro was there, taking the tea out of his hands and doing it for him.
“Brother, you should let me do that! You just got back from a mission. You need to rest.”
“Nonsense!” Kyojuro said with a laugh. He set the tea down and distributed them in front of their cushions.” You prepared the tea so lovingly, it’s the least I can do!”
Kyojuro’s support brought another beaming smile onto Senjuro’s face.
His dreams seemed so far away when he could see him sitting there in front of him, alive and well. And he was so strong; even after nearly dying, he bounced back like it had meant nothing.
For Senjuro, it had meant everything.
For a while, the only sounds were the two brothers sipping on their tea and enjoying the fresh air blowing in from the open doors. Then Kyojuro set down his half finished tea and fixed Senjuro with a look.
“I can only stay for a few days,” he said apologetically. “I have a mission up in the mountains. It will be cold— won’t that be nice!”
Even his warm laughter couldn’t quell the sudden and swift beating of Senjuro’s heart. “You’re leaving?” he said, unable to keep the concern out of his voice. “So soon?”
“I must. My aid is needed, Senjuro.”
“Of course, it’s just—" Senjuro brought his hands over his knees, clenching them into the fabric. “You just got here. Why can’t you ever rest?”
He didn’t usually whine like this. Kyojuro never stayed for longer than a week, tops. This was nothing new. But Senjuro didn’t feel the same about watching him go anymore, because one of the last times he’d gone, hadn’t come back.
‘Rengoku Kyojuro, the Flame Hashira, is dead!’
Something out of the corner of his eye moved, something black. Senjuro flinched. Kyojuro’s crow fluttered onto his shoulder.
“Can’t someone else do it?” Senjuro asked, lifting his head. His eyes flitted to his crow nervously. “Isn’t there anyone else? Can’t you—can’t you stay?”
He couldn’t make himself look at Kyojuro. His parents had always remarked upon how though Kyojuro was loud, he didn’t complain. He didn’t whine. Senjuro contrarily felt like it was all he did.
“I’m sorry,” Senjuro said into the silence. “I know you have to go. Please forgive—“
Suddenly, his vision became obscured. Kyojuro had moved toward Senjuro and enveloped him in his arms. He squeezed, and held onto him, until Senjuro found his wits and hugged him back, inhaling his warm and familiar scent.
“If I could stay, I would,” Kyojuro said to him.
I don’t want you to leave, Senjuro thought about saying, but that wouldn’t be right. This was the path he had chosen.
So instead, Senjuro pulled back and affixed a smile to his face. He laid his hands politely over his lap. “Please just… promise me you’ll be careful, brother.”
“I will! Always!”
“And next time you see Tanjiro, please tell him I’d like him to visit sometimes, too. Exchanging letters takes such a long time, even with our crows.”
Kyojuro’s face immediately went soft. Senjuro felt like smiling at that, but refrained.
“What are you doing here, Sasori?” The Kazekage idly swirled his wine, watching as the viscous fluid curtained down on the glass– only to swirl it back up again. “You come to my chambers after hours– and you don’t even know what you’re hungry for.” Attention. Praise. Company. Another lesson on strategy. “Figure out what you’re paying for with that sort of devotion.”
But the Kazekage was wrong. Sasori knew exactly what he wanted from the start.
Relationships: Sasori/Sandaime Kazekage
Tags: Age gap, power dynamics, king and kingsguard, sultan and grand vizier, that sort of thing
** “Our kingdom come, our will be done in thee as it is in me – is from a poem called Kingdom Come by S.T. Gibson.
Summary: Sasori decides to do a favor for the fairy king, presently known as Third. Who owes who is a subject of scholarly debate.
Warnings: sexual quid pro quo, power difference, sasori is plotting and third goes along with it.
For @naruto-smut-monday prompt: Bound.
Notes: A piece of a PWP that I'm intending on making longer. It won't be posted on AO3 until it's done.
The various names of Third referenced are those headcanoned by my friends, @awintersrose, @tropical-gothic, @jashinist-femme, and myself.
Thanks to @anon-omatopoeia for betaing :>
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If someone were to ask the fairy king his name, he would suggest they call him whatever they’d like. “A name is a name,” he’d tell them, waving at the air. “I am a title.”
If they were to insist again, then his teeth might flash. He might offer food, or fame, or fortune. “A name is ink on a page, a tongue in the air. It means nothing,” he’d continue, golden eyes shifting quicksilver, “and my time is precious. So, what will it take for you to go?”
And if they were to argue, he would finally laugh, and give them a number. Today, that number was three—Third.
In honor of @thatshipcat declaring it SasoThird day! I thought it would be fun to pick up a few ship headcanon prompts somewhere in google search. And since Sandaime Kazekage doesn’t have too much set canon attributes– it would be doubly fun to see how everyone sees it!
Tagging if you’d like to write your own, or tag me if you get a different set too and tag others!: @thatshipcat, @anon-omatopoeia, @jashinist-femme, @eggyulks, @justanotherblonde
Sandaime Kazekage name: Ryōzen
1. who worries about what they will look like when they are older?
Sasori! He’s the one with more face care products in the bathroom and will try to get Ryōzen to use it too— to weak cries of ‘you’re preserving my skin for nefarious purposes’. But only cuz of the last time they watched Silence of the Lambs.
2. who hogs the blanket?
Ryōzen. Then he gets turned into the blanket, whether he likes it or not. (He does.)
3. who is more likely to cry over a sad book or movie?
Chika (referring to Monzaemon Chikamatsu) who is a cryptid figure who appears every so often as if he’s directing the next love story of the century. I kid I kid. Sasori is only slightly more likely to cry, but he hides it in ice cream and elbowing Ryōzen for a cuddle. Ryōzen plays candy crush somewhere in the middle of the movie.
4. who talks smack while playing video games?
Both. Especially when things get heated up in the Dance Dance Revolution at the local arcade. There can only be one top score.
5. who sings along with the radio?
Ryōzen. It does not help that he has several parts of the opera the Marriage of Figaro memorized. It does not help that apparently certain radios still play that??
6. who would enter them both into a talent show?
Sasori. He has the whole act written out and Ryōzen only figures out what’s happening 5 minutes before their performance. Comically, they still pull off. Chika the cryptid gives them a perfect score.
7. who would accidentally set the kitchen on fire while cooking?
Sasori. The accidental part is up for debate.
8. who would throw the other into a pool?
Ryōzen would throw Sas into the pool. Mostly on a whim. He gets dragged in soon after.
9. who shops for groceries?
Ryōzen shops for groceries. Surprisingly knows his way around fresh produce super well. Sasori calls like every 10 minutes to add something to the shopping list. Also to make sure that Ryōzen is actually doing the errand and hasn’t decided to beat his DDR score at the arcade again.
10. who kills the spiders?
Sasori would kill Ryōzen if he decided to kill a spider.
11. who is the morning/night person?
Both. Very much night people. Awake at 3am doing odd projects night people. Ryōzen is more alive pre-caffeine.
12. whO PROPOSES?
Sasori. He gets it into his head and thinks he’s going to wait for the perfect proposal he’s going to get. Five minutes later, he’s too impatient. Already pulled a priest/official/whatever to do the ceremony.
headcanons from this prompt list, for SasoThird day.
ty @tropical-gothic for the tag!
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Adorable — what do they find especially endearing?
Sasori likes the way Third’s brow creases when he’s concentrating on a particularly difficult task, whether it’s reading old literature, or trying to make sense of legislative proposals. It’s a small, flawed, human, thing, that he’s unable to replicate in his puppets, for now.
Third likes when Sasori gets angry. When the mask is torn off, and the venom slips through the icy cracks—that’s when Sasori is at his most entertaining, and his most honest. (Luckily, he doesn’t have to try too hard to piss him off. It comes naturally!)
But also—when Sasori is deep in thought, and his edges soften, slightly—that is endearing, too.
Bargain — how do they get their own way?
Sasori 100% uses sex to get his way and Third 100% lets him think that it works. If Sasori asked for things he wants, he wouldn’t have to work so hard to get them.
Meanwhile, Third tends to throw money at whatever problem they have. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. Love the dysfunction here 😂
Communication — what is their love language?
Sasori’s love language is, of course, art. It’s the only way he really knows how to communicate. Of course, it’s very one-sided, in that the object of his affections doesn’t always speak his language, and sometimes, they’re an object, which makes things difficult.
Third is a bit more difficult. As he picked up his love language from dramatic novels, and plays and the like, he comes to expect large sweeping romantic gestures. Though he’s not exactly fond of subtle cues, he recognizes a masterpiece when he sees one.
Sasori will have to up his game if he wants to be taken seriously!
Devoted — how do they show they’re serious?
Sasori doesn’t pursue anyone unless he’s serious. Full stop. He has limited time on his hands, he doesn’t waste it with strangers. So, when he decides Third is worth his time, he decides to learn everything about him—his name. Family. Favorite color. Preferred foods. Pastimes. Etc—all before talking to him 😭
“I need to strategize,” he insists.
Third is more adventurous than that. As kazekage, he is somewhat of a celebrity in Suna and the greater shinobi lands, and has no shortage of potential partners. He flirts; he teases; he pokes, and prods; however, he keeps everyone at arms’ length.
Not until Sasori stays over, and sleeps in past noon. (Because he refused to wake up.)
Enchanted — what first caught their eye?
For Sasori, it was Third’s position. As kazekage, he’s constantly surrounded by people—always being looked at. If he were truly honest with himself, Sasori might admit that he didn’t want Third, but what Third represents. The kind of man that is never lonely.
But Sasori is never honest with himself so 😔
I always imagine Third notices Sasori when he’s at his worst? When he’s seething, or grieving—or desperate, or panicked—or downright murderous—anything that proves he’s more than a perfect soldier. That’s what interests him.
Flirty — how do they flirt?
Third is the main flirt in their relationship, while Sasori plays hard to get. While he pretends to be annoyed, he actually really enjoys the attention, and gets frustrated if Third hasn’t teased him in a while. Tsun…
Gentle — how do they provide comfort?
Sasori really doesn’t know how to comfort others; however, if he’s upset, Third may quietly tug him into his arms. No words are needed.
Hot — what is their favorite look on their partner?
Third enjoys seeing Sasori flustered and caught off guard, while Sasori likes to see Third pinned like a bug.
Intimate — what kind of dates do they like?
They both prefer private dates, usually in Third’s residence. On the occasion where they will go out, they usually go to upper end restaurants, specifically to be fawned over, as the most beautiful people in the room.
Occasionally they will also attend some theatre performances, banquets, and fundraisers. They aren’t the type to go to the dark movies—if they’re in public, they want to be seen together.
Jealous — how jealous are they? How do they show it?
So, Sasori is the very obvious choice for jealous partner, here, because his temper is so short, and Third is so desired; but, I think that Third also has his own insecurities? It’s just, he doesn’t tend to show it.
Third tries to swallow his jealousy. He becomes evasive, and downright cold, stoking Sasori’s personal fears—that Third has someone else, that he will leave him, that he doesn’t love him—up until Third drags him out of his misery with a searing kiss—
—and they don’t leave the bedroom for a while ;)
Karma — how do they apologize?
They… don’t? Sasori will say absolutely anything but ‘I’m sorry.’ Third won’t even admit that he’s wrong. It’s a point of contention, especially because they’re both prideful men. But I also don’t think they expect an apology? (This is an interesting headcanon to explore to be honest.)
If Third stays with Sasori, that’s enough for him; if Sasori is honest with Third, then he’s fine as is. Apologies are just words.
Lust — favorite thing about their partner?
Third likes Sasori’s red hair, and slender legs. Sasori likes Third’s bright, golden eyes, and how his hair spills over his collar in the morning light.
Memory — their favorite memory together?
For Sasori, it’s the first night that they kiss; and all the years of pining finally come to a peak, and he can breathe again knowing—he’s not the only one that feels something.
For Third, it’s several years into their relationship, with Sasori grumbling as he tries to get out of bed, hanging onto Third’s arm. It feels nice to be needed, not just as a kazekage, but as a person.
Normal — what does a normal day look like for them?
Third gets up at a decent hour, and lets his attendants dress him, while another servant reads out a schedule of the day’s activities. Sasori curses and pulls a pillow over his head.
He will sleep until noon, then go to the barracks to oversee training of the puppet corps. When the sun sets, Sasori is working on blue prints in his own private studio. He will remember to be home at around midnight, greeting Third with an exhausted kiss.
Obvious — how do they show they’re together?
Sasori sneaks reds into Third’s closet, and Third pretends not to notice; Third buys Sasori expensive jewelry, and Sasori shows it off. Sorry girls, he’s taken.
Peace — how do they relax together?
You might find Third sitting in bed, reading a bad romance novel, with Sasori’s head on his lap, napping. He stayed up late again 😔
Quiet — what can they do together without walking?
See above.
Romantic — what kind of gifts do they like to give?
Third tends to buy something expensive, but classy, usually decorative rather than functional, like jewelry, or clothes. Sometimes he has his assistant buy things for Sasori; he has left her a list of things he wants.
Sasori tends to make something by hand, spending months brainstorming, carving, and then recarving, until his gift is perfect. His gifts tend to be surprisingly thoughtful, though they are few and far in between.
Sleep — how do they sleep together?
Sasori is usually curled on Third’s chest, with an arm thrown over him, or Third splayed on top of him. Sasori prefers more covers than Third who sleeps in the nude, so there is no fighting over sheets.
Thoughtful — what small things do they do for each other?
Third leaves out food for Sasori, who forgets to eat. Sasori may or may not poison Third’s political rivals.
Unity — what would their wedding be like?
Though both Sasori and Third adore being seen, their wedding would likely be a small and intensely private affair, because Sasori can’t wait for the length of time that it would take to plan something grand.
Vibrant — what always makes them smile?
Third usually chuckles at Sasori’s frustrated face. Sasori… tends to smile when he thinks no one is looking. In quiet moments, when Third is his and his alone.
Whisper — what pet-names do they use?
Third @ Sasori: soldier or scorpling
Sasori @ Third: Lord, Sir, Bastard, Idiot, Fool, and so on. Also on occasion: mine.
XOXO: how do they kiss?
Passionately, with teeth, bruising, desperate, and then, softer. Softer. Sighing.
Yearn: what do they do when they’re apart?
Third does explicit things to himself, while Sasori buries himself in his work, and tries not to think too much about him.
Zoom: what’s their favorite picture together?
They don’t have one normally? But I imagine it’s something like, Sasori taking a selfie in the mirror, only to be surprised when Third embraces him from behind. It’s not a perfect picture—the angle is off, and Third’s face is partially off screen—but there is something loving about it. It’s nice.
Summary: After fighting Akaza, Kyojuro wakes up at his family home- alive!
He and Tanjiro make a promise for the future.
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Art commissioned from @lupinchopang27.
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Rengoku jolted awake.
Pale glass bells chimed in the window, shining blue in the afternoon, and scattering light over the ceiling. The paper walls, decorated with swirling dragons and roaring tigers, looked set to devour him.
Somewhere nearby, Senjuro swept, bristles swishing back and forth against the wood as surely as Rengoku swung his sword. Farther away, his father grumbled, arguing with someone—likely, an envoy—about this or that.
This was the Rengoku estate. He was alive. His mother was dead. There were no ghosts here.
It must've been a dream.
Concentrating on his breathing, he poked and probed his wounds, enduring each wince and grimace. Bandages covered the left half of his head, completely obscuring that half of his vision, as well as the majority of his torso, concentrating on a hole in his side, wrapped so tightly that it made moving difficult.
Each inhale set his nerves on fire, and each exhale stoked the flames higher, and higher. Still, he breathed, deeper and deeper, pushing air to his muscles.
Shakily, steadily, Rengoku fisted his bedding, dragging himself into a seated position. More than once, he nearly passed out from the pain.
If the other hashira were there to see his condition…
“I would surely die of shame!” he yelled.
The entire estate fell silent. A crow cawed.
Then, thunder stomped through the halls—
—boom, boom, BOOM!
BOOM!
Tanjiro burst through the screen door. “Rengoku!”
“There is no need to shout!” Rengoku shouted—then paused. “Young Kamado. I did not expect to see you here! Destroying my family home, no less. How is your wound?”
“That’s—“ Tanjiro sucked in a deep breath. He was scraped all over, eyes red and swollen. “I’m really truly sorry. I heard you, and I—well, I wasn’t thinking,” he admitted, making a silent promise to fix it later. “More importantly, how are you?”
“Hmm!” Rengoku crossed his arms. “Everything hurts! And I’ve gone blind—in one, yes, one eye! I do not know how I will live with myself,” he laughed, as if it was all one great joke.
Tanjiro bit his lip, and said nothing.
“At any rate.” Rengoku abruptly changed the subject, “I am glad to see you well. You too, Senjuro. What’s with that face?”
Out in the hall, Senjuro froze. He sniffed loudly at the question, choked with emotion, and shook his head quickly.
“Rengoku, please worry more about yourself,” Tanjiro gently chided.
“I worry just enough,” Rengoku retorted, “for example- right now, I am worrying about my training. How long have I been asleep?”
“Not long enough,” Tanjiro furrowed his brow. “You nearly died!”
“Did I now!” Rengoku boomed, mouth curved upwards. “What a blunt way to address a hashira!”
Tanjiro flushed. “I—“ he caught himself. “I’m sorry. Again.” He ducked his head in guilt.
Rengoku blinked. “Ah?”
Senjuro finally piped up, “Tanjiro, it’s okay. He —doesn’t mean anything by it,” he said, voice small. He glanced around nervously, before stepping over the wreckage of the door, urging Tanjiro towards Rengoku’s bed. “It’s fine. Sit!”
“Really? I don’t mind standing,“ Tanjiro protested, only to acquiesce shortly after. Nonetheless, he knelt next to Rengoku, in seiza—spine ramrod straight, and palms sweating, while Senjuro fluttered about, tidying up the room.
Rengoku paid them no mind. Instead, he was alert, looking back and forth for someone that was not there.
Father was a private man. Perhaps he’d visit when no one was around. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He had made his opinions of Rengoku’s chosen vocation quite clear, after all:
Pointless. A waste of time.
Still, Rengoku waited, and waited, and waited. The longer he waited, the more he dwelled on the issue; and the more he dwelled on it, the more bitter he became.
He had long carried this disappointment with him- it was a constant companion. Up mountains and down valleys he trudged, with it on his back. With each step, it grew heavier, and heavier, until he was scaling a cliff with a boulder tied to him, knowing that, any second, he could slip, and be crushed.
That was fine. If he died, then he’d die, and that was that. He’d die with honor, imagining that—at least, his father might attend his funeral.
Only, he lived. He lived, and the disappointment became a mountain, pinning him to a bed like a bug.
It was, truly…
… a horrible feeling!
Tanjiro’s nose twitched.
“Um…” he started, brow furrowed in concern. “Rengoku, is there anything we can get you? You look…”
—upset.
“—pale,” he fumbled. Which wasn’t untrue.
“I…” Rengoku faltered, swallowing a sudden wave of nausea. He slapped on a reassuring face. “One moment!”
Veins bulged through his arms—Rengoku doubled over, and gagged.
Tanjiro rushed to help him upright, while Senjuro leapt to his feet. “I’ll go get water!”
He darted out of the room, nearly crashing into someone.
Shinjuro cocked his head, his expression unreadable. A bottle dangled from his fingers, sloshing with a sweet-smelling sake, so pungent it made Tanjiro’s hair stand on end.
Senjuro scrambled into a bow. “Father! I—“
“Clean up this mess,” he gruffly said.
There was a beat.
“Yes, father,” Senjuro bowed again. He hesitated, hastily adding, “please go see him.”
He rushed off before Shinjuro could reply, socks padding quietly against the floor. Then, the smell of dulcet sake began to fade: He had also left.
Tanjiro winced.
That was… harsh.
I don’t know what to say . Tanjiro thought. He abruptly realized he was still supporting Rengoku. Heat radiated from the flame hashira, sweat wicking through his yukata, to the palms of Tanjiro’s hands.
Rengoku did not seem to notice at all. His eyes were wide with the strain of holding in his stomach. But when Tanjiro tried to get him to lay down, Rengoku brushed him away.
“I—am fine !” His ever-present smile flickered on and off, like a small flame in a monsoon. The hashira held up a finger. “One more moment, please!”
It was really admirable. Even in despair, he kept pushing on.
“Ah, okay.” Tanjiro reluctantly released him, sitting back on his feet. It’s really none of my business, but…
He stared sourly at his lap, curling and uncurling his fists. A strange feeling bubbled inside him, simmering and boiling; it filled his lungs with steam, and his chest with fire.
Tanjiro exhaled. Don’t cause any more trouble, he told himself, and shoved that strange feeling away, flashing his teeth. “Senjuro is really a wonderful brother, isn’t he?”
“Hm?” Rengoku wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, yes. I am very proud.”
“He reminds me of my sister.” Tanjiro said softly, looking everywhere but Rengoku. From the door, to the blanket, to the window—he glanced outside, at the cherry blossoms, and felt his throat clench. “Hanako. She… always stood up for me, even when I didn’t need it. She was very—kind.”
Then Tanjiro fell silent, picking at his sleeve.
Maybe he had overstepped. Going on and on about his past like that—when the hashira was in such a condition— it was… definitely too much. Yet, he couldn’t keep quiet.
“I miss her, every day.” His voice cracked. “All the time. All of them…”
Salt stung his eyes. He sniffed loudly.
Rengoku waited for Tanjiro to continue. When that did not happen, he took control of the conversation.
“It’s simple. You are her older brother. Her kindness comes from your example.”
His reply was quiet. More quiet than Tanjiro had ever heard him be, and very nearly—sweet wasn’t the right way to describe it. But it was warm. It was gentle. It made his heart ache and flutter.
“And, young Kamado—“ Rengoku loudly added, making his blood jump. “—her kindness will live on through you. Of this I have no doubt!”
“You—“ Tanjiro cleared his throat. “Thank you. That’s very,“ kind, he almost said. “Thoughtful. Of you. To say. Um.” His tongue twisted and tripped. “It—well, it really cheered me up.”
“Mm!” Rengoku nodded and nodded. “Certainly!”
Suddenly, it felt like Tanjiro had eaten all the butterflies from Shinobu’s gardens. Then Rengoku’s smile pulled into a wider grin, and they were set ablaze.
“Train with me!” Rengoku brightly demanded.
Tanjiro immediately bristled. “Absolutely not!” he yelled. “Get some rest!”
Rengoku’s expression did not change. “Eh?”
“Respectfully, sir,” Tanjiro began. He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, “I refuse. I won’t train with you. Not until… you are cleared by a doctor!”
Rengoku considered this for all of a second. “That is acceptable!”
“Then, we can train whenever you want! And, also…” Tanjiro coughed.
“And also?”
“I won’t become your tsuguko!”
Rengoku blinked. EH!?
“That’s what I’m here to tell you!”
“HA!” Rengoku guffawed incredulously. “You are so rude!”
“I’m sorry!” Tanjiro yelled. “Let me explain—“
Rengoku waved him off. “It’s fine. I like it!”
Each word was like an arrow to the heart:
I—LIKE—IT.
Tanjiro very nearly died.
“I still want to explain!” he protested, as Rengoku laughed, and laughed. “I have a very good reason. I do!”
“Which is?”
“It—“ Tanjiro inhaled, bracing himself. “It’s because- tsuguko are trained to replace hashira who fall in battle. You… cannot be replaced! So I’m sorry! But I can’t.”
With that, he set aside his katana, and bowed deeply, pressing his hands, then forehead, to the floor. The wood was cold, but he pressed on, eyes squeezed shut. “I won’t let anyone die for my sake.”
There was nothing to add to that.
For perhaps the second time in his life, Rengoku was stunned speechless. For this low rank to dare say such a thing—to him! The flame hashira!— it had to be a joke.
And yet Rengoku did not laugh. He tried, and his tongue turned to lead, humor slipping from his face, and splattering into his lap.
In just a few short sentences, Kamado Tanjiro had bared his soul, and then threw himself at the feet of an injured man, and then did not move— not to fidget, or take it back—or to shout a hasty, kidding!
If it was a joke, it was certainly… not a good one.
Crossing his arms again, Rengoku narrowed his eyes, brows creased in concentration. Tanjiro kept his head firmly planted on the ground, and waited.
He heard bells ring, clear and beautiful, just outside the window. Somewhere nearby, a bird cawed. Soon enough, he would be on another mission, fighting other demons, with other comrades. Naturally, some would die, and some would live; such was life, and being human. In the long run, it did not matter how Rengoku responded.
“What a foolish thing to say.”
Tanjiro flinched. A single bead of sweat rolled over his neck, beading at the edge of his jaw. It shimmered.
“Alright then.”
It was like lightning shot through him. Tanjiro’s eyes widened, shimmering with emotions. “Alright…?”
“I have decided-“ Rengoku lifted his chin, and bellowed- “I won’t die!”
Tanjiro scrambled to all fours, half-slipping on the sheets, sword kicked somewhere unimportant. He barely managed to catch himself from face planting. “Just like that?!”
“Mm!” Rengoku nodded sharply, looking straight ahead. “You, young Kamado, are my junior. If I died under your protection, it would surely weigh on my conscience in the afterlife.” This he declared as casually as discussing the weather. “So! I won’t die. And that’s that.”
Pro…. tection?
When did Tanjiro say that he’d—
—never mind. That’s not important!
Tanjiro deflated with a relieved sigh, folding himself into a more respectful seiza.
“Really?” He brightened. “I’m so glad. Then- you’ll get some rest?”
Rengoku answered, “Regrettably!”
“And we’ll train later!”
“Of course! But!” Rengoku’s mouth sharpened into a v, and he flashed into Tanjiro’s face, hair bouncing. “I’ll have you know, I get into a lot of trouble. You have your job cut out for you!”
“Uh-“
What is that supposed to mean!
Rengoku threw his head back. “HA! HA! HA!”
…a joke? Right…
Tanjiro chuckled nervously. “I’ll do my best!”
If Rengoku wanted his protection…
He gripped his hakama tightly.
Then he would! To the end. No matter what!
That said…
“Rengoku, you’re hurting, right?” Tanjiro cut off the hashira’s awkward laughter. It was obvious: A weak iron scent slithered around Rengoku, concentrating around his wounds. Likely, reopened.
“If I’m being honest, I’m really exhausted right now.” Tanjiro smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, why don’t we both get some rest? I’ll come by in the morning, and run through some drills. Is that okay with you? That way, you won’t get bored.”
Rengoku observed Tanjiro for some time, his stare wide and unblinking. Whatever he saw, it was enough, and he snapped towards the garden instead, gold eye dancing with glass bells.
“…as you’d like!” he nonchalantly replied, mouth quirked in amusement. “I won’t stop you.”
“That’s very kind!” Tanjiro nodded, “I appreciate it!”
But he did not move to go.
Permission or not, it was rude to leave without saying goodbye, and, right now, he didn’t want to do that. So Tanjiro hummed, and turned towards the garden.
So what if it hurt to smile. So what if he was covered with cuts and bruises, and could barely breathe, thanks to the hole in his stomach.
He was happy. He was really, really happy- so happy, he wanted to shout:
Rengoku is alive! Rengoku is alive! Rengoku is alive!
At that point, Senjuro hurried into the room, juggling some cups, a jug of water, and fresh bandages, nearly tripping over a tray of food by the ruined door.
“When did this get here…” he mumbled. They hadn’t had servants for years, and, of the two Rengoku sons, only Senjuro was allowed in the kitchen. Unless…
He blinked. It couldn’t be.
“Oh, Senjuro!” Tanjiro brightened. “There you are!”
“Oh! Um,” Senjuro wavered near the wrecked door. “Hi.” His eyes flickered towards Rengoku and Tanjiro, then dropped to the floor. “I—interrupted.”
Rolling up his sleeves, Senjuro set everything down and fell to his knees, shuffling closer to Rengoku’s bed. He served them each a cup of water, which Tanjiro gratefully accepted. Rengoku guzzled his, and demanded, “another!”
Senjuro complied.
“Apologies for the wait,” he mumbled, glancing again at Tanjiro. “I had to- send for medicine…”
Tanjiro jumped up. “Let me help!”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all!”
“In that case… would you mind getting that tray over there?” Senjuro shakily managed a smile, matched by Rengoku’s brighter one. “We can eat together.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please, do!”
The tray was set with three bowls of rice, chopsticks, and an iron pot with a savory-honeyed fragrance spilling out from under the lid that made his mouth water. Curry, likely—he sniffed. Beef, with … yam? A strange choice.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled the sweet steam of rice vinegar, thinking briefly of home, his mother, and Hanako.
He made sure to give Rengoku a heaping serving of the curry, then Senjuro, and Rengoku again. What little remained went to him, with a cheerful excuse that he was expected at the wisteria house for dinner, probably. That lie earned Tanjiro a sharp glance from Rengoku. His cheeks burnt red.
Tanjiro clapped his hands together.
“Thank you for this meal!” they all announced, before digging in.
“This looks amazing!” Tanjiro said. “Senjuro, did you make this?”
“No, I just found it…” he looked embarrassed. “Is that okay?”
“More than okay! It’s—“ Tanjiro gulped down some meat “—so good!”
“Mm!” Rengoku agreed, plopping a piece of yam into his mouth. His eye widened, dancing with delighted stars. “Tasty!” He ate more. “Tasty!” And more. “Tasty!”
They were careful, well-mannered bites, that savored the warm and buttery flavor, melting on the tongue, throat bobbing as he swallowed.
Tanjiro gulped. Then he stuffed himself with more rice.
Nothing special. Nothing weird. He was just- hungry. That’s all.
The brothers made small talk through the meal, Senjuro meek where Rengoku thundered, carrying the conversation as easily as a blade, praising the food all the while; but, as the conversation went on, Senjuro gained his confidence, nodding vigorously, and Rengoku softened, delightedly listening to him talk.
Just like in battle, he knew when to advance, and when to retreat. It was really quite outstanding.
His stomach flopped uncomfortably.
Tanjiro set his chopsticks down. “All done!” he smiled. “Is there anything else I can help with?”
“No, no,” Rengoku waved him off, while Senjuro stammered, “actually-“
They looked at each other. “Ah?”
“Well-,” Senjuro squirmed, shoulders inching towards his ears. “I… am not good with blood. And the doctor clearly instructed, ‘his bandages must be changed often.’ But, when I try,” he shrugged, uselessly.
“Last time, we made my injuries worse,” Rengoku helpfully added, “not to worry! You did your best!”
“…like I said, I want to help,” Senjuro continued, “But it’s better that I don’t.”
“I’m great with blood!” Tanjiro blurted. Wait… “That is- I bleed a lot! Professionally! Um, that’s not quite right…”
I’ve seen too many corpses to flinch now, was what he meant to say. Please let me help you!
“Ha!” Rengoku laughed. “What a coincidence! I also get wounded quite frequently!”
Senjuro mumbled, ”please don’t brag about that…”
It was too late to back down. “So you understand!” Tanjiro shouted. “I’m glad to be of assistance! Please let me strip you.”
“…”
“Of course!” And Rengoku went to untie his yukata.
Tanjiro stared, then clambered to pull it away.
Senjuro quickly stood. “I’ll... go now.” Their used dishes clattered in his arms. “—clean. And get, um. Tea?”
“Yes please!” Rengoku beamed. Tanjiro leaned into him, struggling to get the sleeves past Rengoku’s elbows. Senjuro hurried to bring them a clean rag and bucket of water, and left just quickly.
His shoulders… are so broad! Apologizing to the sky, Tanjiro shoved his face into Rengoku’s chest, grappling at the yukata, hitching it up, and down. The hashira stayed still as he worked, moving only when instructed.
He really was the perfect patient.
Cloth flopped onto Rengoku’s lap, revealing taut muscles wrapped in white gauze, splotched with dark spots where some scabs had cracked open.
Unbidden, Tanjiro reached forward, thumb slipping under the bandage, and tracing along the edge. It didn’t look like the bleeding had spread too far, but…
Rengoku tensed.
When he was a child, after training, father had ruffled his hair, and teased him for his impatience.
“Father!” he had huffed and stomped. “I want a real sword. I’m ready!”
”Is that so?” Father, then, knelt to his level. “Then, let me tell you a secret. Don’t tell anyone else. Understand?”
“Yes, father!”
Father put a finger to his mouth, and shushed him. Kyojuro snapped his mouth shut. His round gold eyes went round and wide, as the older Rengoku looked left, right, and left again.
Then Kyojuro was tossed up into the air, thrashing and shrieking, before father caught him, laughing, and twirling him in circles. “I love you! I love you!”
But that was long ago.
It had been many years since anyone had held him like this- searching and shy, careful and cautious, as if he were something fragile, or precious. Not even his mother had coddled him so—no matter how much he wished for it—saying that swords were forged in fire, not charity.
Tanjiro was so gentle, it hurt.
Shoving away his thoughts, Rengoku glanced towards him. “You’re very red,” he observed. Tanjiro bristled.
“I—was wondering about your training regiment,” he half-lied.
“That?” Rengoku hummed. “I only teach my tsuguko that. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Absolutely not!”
Rengoku threw his head back. “Ha! Ha!”
Tanjiro became even redder, if that was possible. Ducking low, he busied himself with his work, gingerly peeling the bandages away from the hashira’s front and back. Rengoku sat there stiffly, raising his arms when Tanjiro nudged him, apologizing.
“I’m not the best doctor,” he sheepishly admitted.
“Is that so!”
“But, you’ve done so much for me,” Tanjiro said, pressing a cotton cloth to Rengoku’s side. “—please hold this.”
“Of course!” he obliged.
“So, I’m glad I can help, even if it’s only a little,” Tanjiro said, peeking up at the flame hashira. He then smiled sadly, making Rengoku choke.
Fine! This was fine. He was fine!
Ha! Ha! Ha…
“Young Kamado!” he suddenly exclaimed. “If not for you, I would not be here at all.”
“Hah?”
“So!” Rengoku poked Tanjiro’s forehead. “There’s no need for such an expression!”
“Is there something wrong with my face?” he crossed his eyes at Rengoku’s finger. “Um…”
“Absolutely!” Rengoku jabbed Tanjiro again, harder. “Hold your head up high! And,” the hashira clapped his shoulder. “Take pride in your work, my friend. You have earned it!”
“Ah, thank you,” Tanjiro stammered. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
“You are welcome!” Rengoku beamed again, and gestured towards himself. “Please, continue!”
“Right!”
Tanjiro tugged off the last of the bandages, thumb brushing against the dried blood. Pain flashed across his eyes—the same sad expression as before.
This time, Rengoku did not admonish him.
Feeling sympathy, being pitied… these emotions, as uncomfortable as they made him, were simply part of being human.
“I think…” Tanjiro slowly began, rolling the vowels over his tongue. He fiddled with the rag Senjuro gave him, dabbing it Rengoku's skin, gently washing away the blood. “I think- Rengoku is a very caring person, who is considerate of others. But, he doesn’t always consider himself. He… that is, you… work hard to protect others, and sometimes, that’s not so good for your health. And don’t say, ‘that’s not important!’, because it is.”
He inhaled, gathering himself. Rengoku waited politely.
“From now on, you don’t have to be so strong,” Tanjiro finished. “After all, I’m going to protect you, right?” he smiled again, earrings tinkling.
“Like I said!“ Rengoku began, eye wide, ears burning, “I will not die under your protection. So, if that’s what you want,” he coughed. “I suppose… as your senior, it would be rude to refuse.”
“Oh, good,” Tanjiro exhaled, sinking back into seiza. “I was worried, for a second. But I’m glad.”
This time, he smiled sweetly, making the hashira’s pulse leap into his throat.
Nodding, Rengoku swallowed, and looked outside— at the bells, at the garden, at the Kasugai crows pecking at the windowsill— at anything but Tanjiro.
He wanted to leave. He wanted to move closer. He wanted to say something. He wanted to stay silent. He wanted everything. He wanted nothing. He wanted…
Rengoku glanced back at Tanjiro, chest tightening.
It was strange. Very strange.
“Um, Rengoku?” Tanjiro waved at him. “I’m going to look at your eye now, okay?”
With that, Tanjiro grabbed his face with both hands, tilting it left, and right.
Rengoku wrinkled his nose, cheeks squished between Tanjiro's palms. He was, almost… cute. If a man like Rengoku could be described as cute.
“You seem alright, but…” Tanjiro leaned in, nose brushing Rengoku’s, to nudge their foreheads together. He frowned. “Maybe… a little warm. What do you think?”
Rengoku thought he was going to die.
“Mm,” he agreed. Absolutely mortifying.
“You must be tired,” Tanjiro commented. Rengoku slumped onto him, burying his embarrassment in the green-checkered haori.
There was a light knock from the hall.
“Tanjiro,” Senjuro called out, “are you done yet?”
“Just a second!” Tanjiro reached for the fresh gauze. “I’ll let you know when I’m done, okay? Then I’ll go.”
“Yes!” He heard Senjuro fidget. “Thank you again.”
“It’s my pleasure!” Tanjiro insisted, biting down on the end of the bandage. “I just need a bit more time.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Senjuro said, walking a safe distance away. Tanjiro sniffed the air.
Poor Senjuro. To be so nauseous around blood…
“It must be frustrating,” he wondered aloud, “coming from a family of demon slayers, and having that sort of constitution…”
“He has his own struggles,” Rengoku simply replied.
“Sorry,” Tanjiro sheepishly said. “I know it’s none of my business…”
He shifted Rengoku to a more comfortable position, biting down on the edge of the bandage and tying it roughly. The hashira’s head lolled into his neck, flame breath searing against his skin.
Despite himself, Tanjiro shivered.
Then again, he turned towards Rengoku, hand sliding down his back. Back then, the scent of death made me vomit, too…
Only a demon could swallow it without blinking. So, it really was better that Senjuro was so soft-hearted.
“This world is filled with wonderful people,” Tanjiro warmly announced, untangling himself from Rengoku. He stood up, brushing off his hakama, and went to collect his katana.
Should I… say goodbye? Tanjiro hesitated, then shook his head, clipping his sword onto his belt.
“Thank you for letting me visit,” he bowed deeply, watching the floor intently. “I’ll be back soon, if you’ll have me.”
When he looked up, their eyes locked. Then Rengoku jerked away, face red and unreadable.
“As you’d like,” he muttered, parroting his earlier words. “I won’t stop you.”
He looks angry, Tanjiro gulped. But he could not help the happiness that bubbled up, bursting out in a loud laugh.
/ end.
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