❝ Persistent. You're all seriously persistent. And it bores me. It sickens me from the bottom of my heart. Whenever you open your mouth, you only remember that one dumb notion about avenging your parents, kids, or siblings. You've all survived. That should be enough for you. So your family got slaughtered. What's the problem here? Think of yourself as lucky, and go back to the way you lived life before. Look at it this way, being killed by me is the same as encountering a great calamity. You don't need to think so hard about it. Rains, winds, volcano eruptions, earthquakes. Nobody tries to swear revenge on a natural disaster, no matter how many lives it takes. ❞
An independent, private and low activity roleplay blog for 𝐊𝐈𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐉𝐈 𝐌𝐔𝐙𝐀𝐍 of Kimetsu no Yaiba. My portrayal is based on the anime and manga, and is expanded with headcanons. This blog features dark and mature content. Triggers include, but are not limited to: horror, gore, death, violence, murder, and cannibalism. For my own comfort, I will not follow or interact with minors. There will also be untagged manga spoilers. My main RP platform is discord, so this blog is currently on semi-hiatus with very sporadic activity.
Though the two of them usually had a specific routine that entailed them to leave at the same time - Kokushibo usually driving the politician's car to his office - on some days Muzan-sama had duties that required him to attend sessions within the house of representatives. Although the political building was in possession of a quite elaborate cafeteria, it still did not prevent the American from waking up earlier to prepare a lunch box for the other.
The many minutes spent within the kitchen were more than worth it to grant Muzan-sama the opportunity to eat one of his favourite dishes prepared precisely the way he liked it best. Arranged neatly into a classy bento box, the various elements expertly shaped into stars and hearts. Atop the closed container a small sticky note had been attached:
You will do well, do not forget your resilience, xoxo
The entire thing carefully stowed within his husbands briefcase, waiting until it was time to be grabbed by the politician in question for the day that was to come.
By noon, the measured gravity of parliament proceedings gave way to the midday recess that aligned with the standard business lunch hour. Members of the House of Representatives emerged from the south-wing chamber in dark, monochrome suits; their conversations carrying in low voices as they moved through the stately corridors. Some hurried toward committee rooms or their own offices for last-minute meetings they had squeezed into their schedules. Others disappeared behind the doors of their respective parties to continue discussions over lunch.
Muzan, on the other hand, remained seated just for a minute longer beneath the chamber's lights.
The morning had been relentless, as expected. Questions from the opposition, amendments to review, and the discussion of a sprawling proposal that had turned the legislative session into something akin to a battlefield or a contest of priorities. All the same, the day had proved useful enough. He had secured support for one of his preferred amendments, offered a compromise that brought another faction closer to the bill in question, and received an invitation to a private dinner from two senior members whose political loyalty was still uncertain but could prove useful. Particularly now that the rumor of the current Primer Minister's intention to leave office had begun circulating through Nagatacho.
Muzan rose.
Ordinarily, he would have returned to his office at the First Members' Office Building to brief papers waiting on his desk while he ate lunch. That day though, he decided to remain within the Diet complex, making his way to one of the cafeterias.
The place was crowded with staff and lawmakers, though he found a quiet —for now— table and opened his briefcase.
The bento box Kokushibo had prepared for him was inside.
The note was read first, red eyes lingering on it for a moment. And when his gaze reached the small detail at the end of the note, an amused sigh emerged from his lips. After the hectic morning, the words seemed quite fitting. It was intentional, no doubt. If there was someone acquainted with Muzan's schedule and who could therefore predict when a day was bound to be more draining than others, it was Kokushibo.
The note was then carefully folded in half and tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Throwing it away did not even cross his mind.
The lid of the box was then removed, revealing a meal arranged with exceptional care. Rice lightly dusted with gomasio, various vegetables carved into shapes (undeniably Kokushibo's work and a cause of another light wave of amusement), and karaage as its centerpiece.
There was no denying that, for perhaps the briefest moment, the sight of the latter happened to succeed at putting a dent in the perfectly composed exterior he had kept so far.
Karaage. A secret favorite of the politician. It was an absurdly ordinary preference for someone whose tastes leaned toward elaborate cuisine—- who was more than used to being served kaiseki meals: seasonal sashimi, premium wagyu, and other delicate dishes both Japanese and international.
It wasn't a preference he advertised. But it was one Kokushibo was well-aware of.
He picked up a piece with his chopsticks and brought it to his lips; the hecticness of the day momentarily forgotten as the taste filled his mouth.
Unsurprisingly, it had been prepared to his exact tastes.
Even now, four days later with the state of his feralty having receded, he could still feel them. The tendrils of darkness he had kept within him, had refused to part with. And even moreso - he found it far too seamless to follow those small pieces back to its origin. Time had only facilitated the awareness of his lordship, the ability to discern the precise status of the other based on the way the demon king felt. At that moment, that darkness drew together and appeared to move, to gain distance - although there was nothing to gain distance from. It was shock, most likely. It was a logical conclusion to make given the amount of time the other had been caught within a slumber. Another thing he had been able to feel, based on the muted and tranquil air that darkness had taken up within his mind. It was not a connection that allowed much more detail aside from the other's emotional state and presence- though the moon breather had little doubt that if he were to actively try, the results would be far more reaching than that. As it was, he had never been fond of stepping into spaces that did not belong to him. It was one thing to be able to register echoes without active attempt of doing so... for that had been the general nature of his life and would have been the case regardless of how deeply that darkness had nestled within his soul - and another to deliberately seek to invade the personal thoughts of another.
He observed the other's troublesome thoughts quietly, not intent on intervening the turmoil within. It was not his place to wreak any judgement or form a concrete opinion on the other's moment of crisis. Though he did note...that something about the way that darkness felt reminded one of a wound reopened and not something the other had been unfamiliar with.
Whatever it was, it must have been impacting enough for Yoriichi's actions to not feel too novel...and as such much more mind-shattering. His brother did have that effect on others, forcing them to confront parts of themselves they had thought they had overcome. Himself included.
There was more gravity to that presence, despite the other's smaller appearance it appeared the moments of rest had recovered some of the demon king's rest. The darkness felt thicker in texture, more present. He wondered... could the other now access his mind?
Once the demon king's constitution had calmed itself - though outwardly there had not been a single shift to begin with - he gently nudged those tendrils within him once more. Not seeking to reach across the pathway but simply to bring attention to it. The motion terribly instinctive as though they had always been meant to be there...nestled within his mind.
When those plum red eyes found his, six eyes quietly stared back - taking in the sight of the other's smaller form without batting an eye, though he did register the way that darkness seemed to settle slightly....although it also carried a certain...coldness, much alike to being thrown into the cold ocean. How fascinating. There was much about the demon king that remained a mystery.
When the question was posed, there was a short lapse, the former samurai preferring to take his time before answering. It was a perfectly logical and tactical thing to inquire information about though he suspected the answer would reassure the other: "No. I did not find slayer nor demon...attempting to breach the premises..."
He was not naive. Demons were opportunistic creatures. If one were to sniff out a weakness within their leader, there would have been no hesitation to cease it. It was all too reminiscent of humans themselves.
Demon. Inevitably, the progenitor's attention went directly to the latter half of Michikatsu's answer. It was almost incidental in its placement, a small deviation from the question the demon king had posed that could be easily discarded as something inconsequential. And yet, it was a deviation, all the same.
Given their rather short acquaintance and the progenitor's temporary inability to read the other’s thoughts, it would be reckless to presume to know all there was to know about Michikatsu's character. Yet, from what he had gathered so far, Muzan could still venture to assume that Michikatsu was not a careless creature. His speech, more than simply scarce, was measured. His observations seemed deliberate. The small addition in his response was therefore one that followed that same path, and not simply something accidental.
He shouldn’t be surprised, not truly. Michikatsu knew what had transpired, he knew the demon king was weakened—- dispossessed of the power that for centuries had made him seem less a demon than a calamity given flesh. That Michikatsu went as far as to subtly suggest that even one of his own demons could pose even the slightest threat to him though, was an insulting interpretation. But given the present circumstances, not exactly unreasonable.
His own creations had never been a concern to the progenitor. Unless one became disobedient, troublesome, or otherwise deserving of their own demise, they were little more than tools Muzan could move and discard as he pleased. Bound by blood to the demon king, they existed only as long as their progenitor allowed it. However formidable any of them became, none could ever hope to rival the very source from which their power had sprung.
That sun breather's attack though, had left more than wounds upon him. It had fractured his dominion over the blood that bound his demons to his will. If someone as pitiful as Tamayo had found a way of severing herself from his influence, he could only wonder what more competent demons could believe themselves capable of doing; how much they could delude themselves into thinking they could use this for their gain.
Michikatsu knew this. Otherwise, that small addition wouldn't have been spoken. Said demon's awareness of this fact was equally a source of ease and irritation. It was undeniably reassuring that Michikatsu understood the limits of the demon king's present condition. Knowledge brought preparedness. And preparedness ensured that Michikatsu would not be caught unaware should those limits ever become consequential. Yet, it was also irksome, particularly to one who considered the mere suggestion of infirmity an indignity by itself.
The way the other reached out through his mind alone —a silent nudge— forced him out of his musings, his features having remained unchanging, showing no external reaction. The other's subtle action though, had the demon king attempt to reach Michikatsu's thoughts, seeking whatever Michikatsu might have been thinking. And yet, the moment he tried to press deeper, a sensation akin to nausea rolled through him.
It was quite the reminder that he was starving. Hunger was gnawing at the edges of his concentration, no doubt hindering the effortless exercise of his abilities which should have already returned to him after four entire days of rest.
There was no need to continue ignoring said hunger, now that he knew there was no immediate urgency to change his location.
❛ I will search for nourishment tonight, ❜ he began, his voice retaining its commonplace control. As he spoke, his eyes never left Michikatsu's six. ❛ You will come with me and feed as well. We will be moving to a new location soon, and I require you at full strength. ❜ The words were simple enough, taking the shape of a command and needing no further elaboration. Though he had reasons to conclude that Michikatsu had fed quite thoroughly not long after his transformation and thus was likely not nearly as famished as him, there was no advantage to be found in leaving the other demon here when he could keep him near. It was something he had already decided when he ordered the other to stay four days ago.
@divineiichor sent for: don't get attached to somebody you could lose. ( corps leader muzan au )
Maroon eyes quietly sat with a certain heaviness as the words were registered. It had been another day spent training at the headquarters - the previous nighttime had found him dutifully slaying every demon that came across his path. He had rested for but a few hours after nightfall had ceased to be - and had started training when the sun had risen to sit in the middle of the sky. He had spent a good amount of hours honing his craft amidst the training grounds, had found the strength to prepare himself something to eat to ensure he would not collapse, had even managed to finish the whole thing.
Now, sitting next to the frail leader of the corps, that felt like a mistake.
His stomach roiled with a disconcerted sensation. Not quite to the point of active nausea but still bearing a heavy weight that did not quite belong.
His chest felt pressured, like someone had taken it and decided to painfully squeeze it together, his eyes having trouble maintaining a clear gaze on things. Everything feeling distorted and... akin to a flood that frayed the edges of his vision.
Oh. He had overstepped.
He hadn't meant to. He had not consciously decided to find himself here... at Kibutsuji-sama's side. Again and again. Something had drawn him in, had beckoned him closer. Those deep pools of red containing an entire landscape of unexplored mysteries, that sharp mind one could not help but admire, itch to understand.
It had never seemed as though the corps leader had minded his company. He had always felt... so understood beneath that keen gaze, had found their conversations to be a mutual exchange - one that left them both bare in the eyes of the other. It had been intoxicating. He had had no name for it, had not needed one to know the hold that tender feeling blossoming between them had on him.
He had thought the other... had shared that, such as they seemed to share so much between another...that remained left unspoken.
Perhaps...he had thought wrong.
He had been foolish...to project such sentiments upon Kibutsuji-sama. He had feigned an understanding of the man that had simply never been there to begin with.
Those words... Kibutsuji-sama did not want him to grow attached, he did not want this. He did not want...him.
He did not understand why he had deluded himself into considering such a thing in the first place when the confidence that required thinking in such a manner had never been something he had owned. The only two creatures in this world who had ever made him feel loved without condition, the two little things he had left behind. Into a society that would teach them the very same things he had been taught, the very same violence, the very same bloodshed. He did not miss them for what they gave him, he missed them for the fact that he would never be able to hold their small hands in his again, to watch their tiny faces shape into joy... he could never forgive himself for having left them behind and yet... he had not looked back. It was a painful fact to live with... though he could not imagine the heartbreak he had caused them in return.
It was grounding...to remind himself of the fact that the world was bigger than his feelings. That it was bigger than rejection. Children...tended to do that to you. Even though Megumi and Yujiro were many miles away and he would never see them again due to the consequences of his own choices.
"If you desire me to leave...I will do so." His voice spoke in its usual resonant baritone, eyes holding a quiet hurt entangled with that spine of steel that would keep him aloft. Braving through this moment like he had through any other. Words not a provocation but a simple acceptance of either outcome. No matter how soul-crushing... the outcome would be endured.
Leave? The word and its implication felt foreign, if not out of place. It lingered in the air between them with an unnatural weight that made a faint crease appear between the leader's brows, its appearance enhanced by the shadows of the shifting flame of the brazier that sat near, providing the warmth that Muzan's ailing body struggled to create on its own.
Red eyes remained fixed upon Michikatsu, studying him in an attempt to understand what exactly had made the other draw the bleakest conclusion. It became evident that Michikatsu was not waiting for clarification, but instead had accepted whatever interpretation he seemed to have made of Muzan's words, lingering now with the composure of someone who had taken a wound in complete silence and chosen not to bleed in front of the person who had caused it.
He didn't like the sight of it.
❛ You misunderstood me. ❜ The words carried a certain firmness, the type that admitted no ambiguity in its purpose of preventing a falsehood from taking root. They escaped his lips with a swiftness that was unlike him, as though allowing another moment of silence would further the misread.
Without another word, he reached for the teapot beside him. His fingers trembled the moment he lifted it, overpowered by a weight that was nothing short of insignificant. Tea streamed unevenly into Michikatsu's cup, amber drops spilling over the rim.
The teapot lurched somewhere on its way back to the tray. Muzan caught it at the last moment, a sharp breath escaping him as he settled it back on the tray and removed his still trembling hand until it was placed on his lap, concealed amongst the layers of his robes.
The action had been deliberate. He knew that his body would fail to properly execute even this much.
If his words had not been enough, perhaps his failing body would speak more clearly.
❛ I am dying. ❜ The words escaped all the same. They were not dramatic, nor did they demand any kind of sympathy. He had long since learned how to live with the anger that his condition elicited, the profound fury that lurked beneath the surface. The words, therefore, were simply the truth. ❛ That is what I meant. ❜
He allowed silence to extend, red eyes briefly leaving Michikatsu to focus on their surroundings. The tokonoma that guarded a single scroll brushed in elegant calligraphy and an arrangement of chrysanthemums. Through the paper screens, the outlines of the gardens of the estate could be seen.
Muzan had grown familiar with this room. More than he cared to admit. And there was something to be said about the ease with which Michikatsu had also become a part of it.
It had happened gradually. A swordsman who once only spoke when necessary had begun lingering after meetings ended. Conversations that should have occupied a space of minutes had stretched into hours. Michikatsu, who usually seemed inclined to stand apart from others, had begun seeking Muzan's presence.
Muzan had allowed it. The distance had been breached, until it disappeared entirely. And he had allowed himself to look forward to those meetings, to that specific time of the day between Michikatsu's training sessions and his night time missions. He had even begun to set aside enough tea for two without conscious thought, and getting himself more involved in the other's wellbeing. He had begun asking whether Michikatsu had eaten, whether he had slept, whether his wounds had healed properly. When difficult days pressed heavily upon him, it wasn't solitude he found himself anticipating, but the certainty that Michikatsu, sooner or later, would appear.
Somewhere along the way, the rigid formality once prevalent between them had been reduced to public appearances, and forgotten behind closed doors.
Muzan wasn't prone to self-deceit. He could see the attachment that was beginning to form. He could see where their interactions were leading them.
❛ You know why the demon king must fall. Why I have endured this long. ❜ He paused. ❛ If the demon king dies, the curse upon my family's blood will be lifted. These were the words of a priest. But I have never been particularly inclined to place my faith in priests. ❜ It was, still, all he had. An offering of hope that had proved unattainable to those who came before him. ❛ Even if he is defeated, there is no certainty that I will survive. ❜
Red eyes lifted, searching for the other's gaze. Little could be done to entirely conceal the frustration that existed near the surface. He didn't exactly excel at selflessness. He never had. And it proved particularly troublesome now. He didn't want Michikatsu to leave, he wanted the very opposite. But the warning still had to be voiced.
❛ It is something you must understand before you build your future around a man who may not have one. ❜
To think Muzan had spent lifetimes believing this man to be something monstrous. Perhaps memory had not preserved him as faithfully, and instead turned him into something vast and inevitable, taking away the ordinary imperfections of his human nature until all that remained was an overwhelming presence that could not be described, only feared. Even in this life, that impression had endured. Muzan had carried it like an old scar that no longer bled, but that remained present beneath the skin.
And yet, now all he could see was someone astonishingly blind. Not in sight, but in understanding.
It was... almost disappointing.
Muzan's words had not been a calculated attempt to unsettle the other, nor a deliberate provocation. They had been a concession. The answer Muzan had been unable to give all those centuries ago, when Yoriichi had stood before him —sword pulsing an angry red after having cut through him—, and asked a question with a simplicity that contrasted with the blood that soaked the soil: What is the value of a life to you?
There had been no room for words back then. Only the desperate pursuit of survival.
Things had changed now, enough that at least they could extend each other the courtesy of listening. Or so Muzan had believed. He was not boasting. He was not attempting to provoke the other. He was merely closing a door that had been left open for too long.
And Yoriichi understood none of it. Had he given the other too much credit, perhaps? Muzan had imagined him as a man who could cut through falsehoods with the same effortless exactness with which he had wielded his blade. But instead he had taken the most honest thing Muzan had offered him and assumed the worst simply because it was what fit more comfortably within the world he understood.
Muzan might have laughed at the sheer absurdity of it, had the other not forced Michikatsu into the conversation in such a belittling way.
How... disgusting. The automatic alarm that rang within his mind when other's countenance changed to something dangerous was surprisingly short-lived. Even though Yoriichi's words were shaped as a threat, for the first time Muzan could not bring himself to react to them with anything that resembled dread.
❛ I thought that you would recognize I was finally finishing the conversation you began that night. ❜ It was as much of an explanation as he cared to give about the intention behind his words. His attention, after all, was elsewhere now. ❛ But do you even hear yourself? You have so easily decided that your brother's judgement cannot be trusted. If you believed Michikatsu capable of distinguishing truth from deceit, you would have asked him this question. Not me. ❜ A tinge of irritation migrated to his voice. Muzan had learned enough of the twins’ history together to know that simply asking Michikatsu for his opinion wasn't something this man excelled at.
❛ You humans have a strange definition of love. You think it entitles you to decide, to know what's best. Even if it means overwriting the will of the person you claim to cherish, imposing your own instead and calling it protection, ❜ he continued, words emerging immaculate. It did not escape his own notice how he spoke of humans as something separate from himself, but it wasn't like he had ever felt quite human. The difference now was that he knew why he had lived with that persistent sensation. He had never truly become human again. He had only become mortal. ❛ How is that different from what I did? I took away my demons' autonomy. Shaped them into becoming what I needed of them. I didn’t ask for their opinions, I never cared for what they had to say. ❜ A pause. Red eyes narrowed slightly. ❛ Not Michikatsu. I gave him something else: the freedom to choose. I never demanded that he surrender his judgement. I never even forbade him from disagreeing with me. He did not stand on the same level as other demons. I made room for him beside me. Even now, knowing exactly what I am, he chooses to remain there simply because that is what he wants. ❜
He allowed silence to stretch between them. Just a bit. Just enough. Enough to convey his distaste at having to take part in this insulting —not to him, to Michikatsu— conversation.
❛ So do not expect me to diminish what exists between Michikatsu and me just so it might conform to your low human standards. ❜
The command the demon king had uttered all those hours ago, had been dutifully followed. The enigmatic figure of the moon breather haunting the perimeters as instructed. Unwilling to part from the king's presence despite logic dictating the other would likely require nourishment when the time came. Michikatsu was not yet familiar enough with Muzan-sama to interprete and play with the lines of orders even if it would benefit the progenitor of demonkind in the long-run.
Additionally, Michikatsu was unaware of the fate that awaited yoriichi. Whilst he was not in doubt regarding his brother's drive to finish what he had started - intimately familiar with Yoriichi's deep investment in reducing suffering - which he, for some reason, believed the demon king to be the very source of - the moon breather was most understandably not able to calculate the other's whereabouts.
Whilst Michikatsu had never dared fool himself in regards to his own inferiority in contrast to Yoriichi's, it was tactically much more sound to remain close to the demon king. Whilst Michikatsu was not conscious of how in tune Muzan-sama was with Yoriichi's presence, the moon breather knew from intimate experience that Yoriichi possessed a decisive lack of indication of his existence. Even years of remaining by the others side had only granted Michikatsu the ability to sense the other - Whilst standing close to him. It was highly unlikely that the demon king had been able to curate a certain instinct for Yoriichi based on the short amount of time the two had spent in each other's presence, no matter how powerful the man he had set to serve was.
As such, it was simply the most logical decision to remain closeby and it would act as a reassurance towards the demon king in regards to his willingness to follow the others commands to the latter.
The hours flitted by as Michikatsu continued his vigil, six eyes keenly observing the environment for any trail of those cursed hanafuda earrings - ponderings. For the first time since that fateful night, capable of processing the things that had transpired as well as the weight of his decision.
It was not a predicament he regretted. To choose to live despite the shackles of fate wishing to entrap him within the usual throes of mortality humanity was susceptible to. The offer the demon king had provided, generous despite its ulterior motif remaining concealed as of now. In any case, the true reason why the demon king had elected to proclaim said offer in the first place, was of little consequence to Michikatsu. Unecessary to dwell on matters that ultimately benefitted all parties involved.
Still, the process itself had been gruesome. A pain he would not have been able to envision - though not one that had made him want to refute his previous decision. As re-writing one's very cells was prone to be accompanied by pain.
Even Yoriichi's surprising entanglement with the situation had complicated the demon king's existence and undoubtedly spurned a certain introspective phase within the demon king.
He had never been one to ponder the choices that had led one into certain predicaments, preferring to handle the fall-out. Finding no need to entertain any of these ramifications any further - his stance already established and further consideration would only serve as a waste of time and energy - caused Michikatsu to reduce his thought process to inspecting his environment and the building that as of currently housed the resting demon king. All focus was reduced to the single-minded prospective he had been tasked with.
Though guarding the area also allowed for a certain leeway - the moon breather permitting himself to flit between the different components of the buildings exterior, the graceful and soundless movement alike to parkour, an exercise to both remaining vigilant of one's surroundings and to test the extent of his newfound stamina.
Though Michikatsu would have been able to endure these hours without much movement, there was no reason to restrict it and it was only logical to begin an exploration of the physical changes his newfound demonic presence had brought. Though most changes would undoubtedly be related to a blood demon art and an increased stamina, it had been many days since Michikatsu had last partaken in any practice related motions.
Said endeavour brought forth many hours constructively spent. Though Michikatsu was unwilling to experiment in any blood demon art related matters without the careful eye of the demon king, not wishing to potentially risk the secretive nature of their presence in this very territory due to his unfamiliarity with what exactly awaited him.
The times the sun came to grace the earth, Michikatsu merely remained inside, his mind sunken in resonance, never once invading the space muzan-sama had used for his rest.
Still well-nourished from the massacre of the village Michikatsu could not truly remember, Michikatsu's hunger was only slow to return over the time spent in this very house. Though he had the strong hunch that the same could not be said for the demon king.
Still, Michikatsu was unwilling to interrupt the other's recuperation, electing to trust the other's judgement best when it came to recovering from the damaging encounter.
It was night, when the now smaller - but still unmistakable presence of the demon king - exited through the shoji door, stepping into the garden.
Michikatsu's six eyes keenly focused on the other's changed features: the decreased height, the rounder face and smaller hands. The moon breather left the change uncommented, the deep commanding tone that left the smaller beings mouth remaining the same cadence as ever. As muzan-sama called out for him in the night through said question, induced his own path towards that voice.
The wind softly increased at the pressure of Michikatsu's arrival to the demon king's proximity, aura entangled with the very currents of nature, the air prickling with the power he carried ever so often. Tall statue now even more pronounced with the other's deliberately much smaller disposition. In quiet consideration of avoiding their increased height difference to be of any consequence, Michikatsu had opted to stand a few metres behind the other, slightly to his right, attention fixed on both their surroundings and the figure before him. The question at last answered: "Four nights." Not one to sugar-coat his words.
Four nights. For a moment, the words lingered in the air as though detached from true meaning. Until their full weight at last settled over him. Despite the disturbance that such knowledge caused, there wasn't a fracture in his expression. No outward display that betrayed the way in which something inside of him recoiled with both repulsion and what —much to his own loathing— could be described as panic.
Four days in which the sun had risen and set beyond his awareness, outside the chamber where he had retreated like some wounded and frail animal licking his wounds after a fight. Four days during which he had been nothing short of powerless. Four days in which he had lain unconscious, vulnerable, incapable of defending himself. Helpless. That last word was particularly aggravating. He despised that he could still recognize such sensation. The last time he had felt this way... he had been human. A frail, dying creature confined to a bed and forced to wait for physicians and medicine, his breath shallow and his heart racing, his body consumed by illness.
For half a millennium after having shed the trembling weakness of a mortal body, absolute power had been the foundation upon which his own existence rested. He was far beyond any human limitation. Others lived or perished according to his wishes. They feared and obeyed. Never the reverse.
Yet one encounter, not with some ancient creature like himself, but with a human, had overturned what had long since become the natural order of things.
And here he was, his safety depending now not upon the perfection of his flesh, nor upon his own strength. But upon a demon of his own creation, who mere days ago had stood among those who dedicated their lives to hunting those of his kind. A hashira, no less.
The progenitor did not gamble with his life. A gamble implied uncertainty—- placing something of worth into the hands of chance and accepting loss as a possibility. Humans could afford such foolishness. They could gamble with their lives because said lives were meaningless and brief. It was something they did often. They blindly threw themselves into battles they could not win, placed their futures in the hands of circumstances they could not control, and trusted those who could easily betray them.
Muzan did no such things.
And yet—-
Plum red eyes followed the invisible path left by the voice that had answered him moments earlier, his now small frame turning slightly to the right in order to gaze at who stood behind him. The way the wind had increased as the other positioned himself at what seemed like a respectful distance had not been lost on him. Though it would be a lie to say such a thing elicited any surprise. He knew well he had selected one with potential to become more than just a strong demon.
Those six eyes —red sclera and yellow irises— were unmistakable. Michikatsu was there, within the state's premises. Muzan had felt his presence even before the other stood behind him, thus he knew that Michikatsu had been there all along. Exactly where Muzan had commanded him to remain, fulfilling his duty. The sight of him was strangely reassuring, yet it also carried the unpleasantness of the realization that he had, indeed, gambled with his own life by entrusting the other with his protection and allowing himself the luxury of sleep for so long.
Four days. Michikatsu had possessed everything necessary. Strength. Proximity. Time. And the demon king reduced to a lingering state of weakness and unconsciousness. Had Michikatsu desired power, there would have been no easier path. He had been given the opportunity to betray his new master.
But he had chosen to remain obedient—- loyal. It wasn't something Muzan could say he understood, having always relied on fear to ensure obedience. His demons did as commanded because they understood the consequences of disobedience; the progenitor made sure to sear this knowledge into their minds, to engrave the threat of annihilation into their consciousness. Power commanded and the weak submitted. That was the order of things.
Yet Michikatsu's obedience was something else. Muzan did not know how to call it.
❛ Has any slayer come near? ❜ The question revealed more than he would like, but it wasn't one that could be avoided given the circumstances. After all, everything that followed would be determined by Michikatsu's answer. If his location was at any risk of being detected, moving would be deemed a more immediate priority. If it hadn't, there were other matters that he knew he should not ignore for long. Though the days of sleep had contributed to his wounds healing more steadily, the hunger was undeniable. Sleep had made him unable to seek out the nourishment that he undoubtly required after what his body had undergone. He needed to feed, that much was certain. Though when—- that was yet to be decided.
His hand fiddled with the wooden surface of the desk, enjoying the way the texture brushed against his skin, his maroon eyes utterly transfixed by the simple sensation. Though many areas of the university had been renovated, there still remained a few older rooms. Though he had chosen physics as his focus - and for the sake of experimental installments it was better to have a less affected surface to work on, he still preferred the more nature related installments. It made him feel closer to nature even during lectures.
Muzan's remark was reacted to with nothing more than a blink. It was true after all. How else did students get to university apart from walking, public transport...or by car. There was nothing to really say - no reason to perceive muzan's words as something other than their literal statement.
Yoriichi did not stop in gently brushing fingers against his desk even as he paid attention to the words that next left the other's mouth. It seems Muzan was talking about an award the physics department wanted to give to him. There was no reason to do so, Yoriichi had simply solved a few equations after all. The groundwork had been laid out decades ago by renounced physicians and other scientists. Without their relentless efforts, Yoriichi's numbers would have been simply that: numbers. If anything, it was quite beautiful how their thoughts and theories had been carried forth by the minds of the future - such as they would even now. Yoriichi had played a far smaller part compared to those that had come before him. As such, it was quite confusing why Yoriichi would be the one rewarded for it.
Muzan, it seemed, appeared to share that perspective. The little whisper he released seemed certain of Yoriichi's reception of such a prize. "I don't deserve it." A truth easily acknowledged, tone unchanging: "Everyone played their part. We wouldn't be here today without those that have come before us." A slight pause followed before he once more resumed speaking: "Other students worked very hard. They should have gotten the acknowledgement."
His gaze drifted towards the shapes that made up this particular piece of wood, entranced by the unique forms, tracing them with his finger. Muzan's gaze once more directing upon him was noticed but left the Tsugikuni unfazed, though the other's question was acknowledged.
"Yes. It is the least I could do." Just because he did not think he should have received such an award, did not mean he simply could ignore it. It would discredit the hard work the university put into these ceremonies. Though Muzan's second comment was quite confusing: "I don't think the university cares that much..." his gaze turning to look at Muzan - expression not giving away his internal befuddlement.
How predictable—- the refusal to allow any form of recognition to settle where it belonged. The obstinate tendency toward redistributing the credit for one's own achievement. That display of modesty seemed so carefully cultivated that if it weren't coming from Yoriichi, Muzan would have thought of it as performative and deliberate. The kind of humility people adopted when they wanted to appear indifferent to their own success while at the same time quietly ensuring they were never separated from it; outwardly refusing praise simply for the sake of social theatrics.
But he knew Yoriichi wasn't prone to pretending, much less to trying to manipulate others' perception of him. His words were simply a direct reflection of self-effacement, without deceptive embellishments.
❛ How charitable of you, ❜ he began, the observation lacking any detectable emotion. ❛ You were better than everyone else. What exactly is so objectionable about that? When the gap between you and the rest is so evident, even humility can sound like an attempt at vanity. ❜ Such open display of unpretentiousness without ulterior motives wasn't exactly something Muzan understood, prone to shifting tone and behavior for his own gain as he was. He was much more fluent in calculation than in honesty, particularly the self-diminishing kind.
His attention soon shifted to the other's apparent failure at understanding what had been nothing more than a sarcastic remark; a deliberate exaggeration. Though Yoriichi's expression remained as unfazed as always, his words alone served to reveal this.
❛ I was being sarcastic. ❜ The explanation fell from his lips, tone regaining its prior amusement. Not that he believed the university to be indifferent to Yoriichi's achievements. But surely they could survive one award ceremony without him.
Yoriichi's confirmation regarding his attendance though, once more made his attention focus elsewhere.
❛ And your brother? I wonder if I'll finally get to meet him. ❜ The small curve upon his lips became more perceptible, accompanied by the slightest tilt of his head. The mention of the other's older sibling was simply to test whether it would provoke any reaction. It wasn't that Muzan particularly cared to meet the man. But it was curious how Yoriichi, who regarded almost anything with a serene sort of openness, became almost carefully restrained whenever his elder brother entered the conversation. It had never been lost on Muzan, after all, the way the other happened to resort to single-word responses or vague references when speaking of his brother. And in particular, when doing so with him.
❛ You always seem intent on keeping him a mystery, ❜ he continued. ❛ I've grown curious. ❜ It wasn't a complete lie. It did intrigue him if only because of Yoriichi's attitude, coupled with the unnecessarily formal and old-fashioned word Yoriichi used to address his brother.
It had been a calm morning. One that had found Yoriichi awake to the gentle sunlight tickling in through the window. He didn't really bother with setting an alarm, preferring to wake up naturally as his body remembered the rhythm of waking up early.
He had prepared himself and his backpack, had greeted mother - she was well today and she had smiled at him. It had been a joy to see her with nearly the strength she used to have - though Yoriichi knew it would not last. All things would have to pass eventually. They would make do.
Aniue was always working so hard to take over, he would do well - Yoriichi was certain of it. He knew Aniue was rather hard on himself, when there was no need for it, his strength an inspiration for Yoriichi to do the same. He would be there, always, if the other ever needed him. No mountain too tall for Yoriichi's unconditional support.
Aniue would have driven him today, had he not been so swamped with obligations - so many important people wanted to talk to Yoriichi's older brother, on events and meetings. It was no wonder the other had not been sleeping well - his eyebags had been visible today too. Even though Yoriichi knew why, it still made his heart heavy with worry.
Yoriichi had accepted the other's packed schedule without protest, had wished him a good day and expressed regret before he had left the house. Sometimes he walked, sometimes he used public transport - Yoriichi found it fascinating either way, to simply watch people get on with their lives, to breathe in the calming aroma of nature. Sometimes animals would find him and he would take a few minutes to enjoy their quiet company. Sometimes he was left alone during his trekk.
Today had been a public transport day - hence why he had arrived at such an early time. He had chosen a seat he tended to occupy often, yet he hadn't felt like taking out his laptop to peruse today's agenda, instead content to sit with his thoughts and impressions of today.
His musings were interrupted by confident steps that Yoriichi had long since identified to belong to a particular student.
Muzan Kibutsuji.
Yoriichi did not quite know what to think of him. He was a little strange, though everyone was a little odd. It was part of human nature. And yet, there was something about the other, that made him halt.
He could not quite explain it, and so he opted to not question it too much. Though he did not drop his guard. Letting that quiet feeling of uncanniness rest within him whenever Muzan was nearby.
Yoriichi barely even blinked when Muzan's shoulder brushed against his, no emotion spreading inside of him at the contact. It just was.
Muzan's remark was probably meant to be good-natured. It was difficult to tell with him. Still, answering would not harm anyone: "I took the train." The sentence and its logic made perfect sense in Yoriichi's head - though he had forgotten to provide any context to it.
Yoriichi was an oddity. Perhaps that was why Muzan had approached him in the first place. It wasn't that he felt any particular attachment to him. Muzan did not gravitate towards people. He categorized them, assessed them, and occasionally tolerated them. His interest in others was often fickle, akin to that of a scientist examining a specimen beneath a magnifying glass—- prone to losing interest once the subject's internal logic revealed itself, proving that they were as ordinary as the rest. There was no value in returning to a solved equation, after all.
But he had yet to decipher Yoriichi. The structure beneath his peculiar behavior still remained lost within unpredictable variables. In fact, it only seemed to grow more unusual each time. Thus why Muzan kept coming back to him.
The other's answer further proved his point. Too unembellished, lacking a context that Yoriichi didn't even seem to realize. For a prodigy with a rather long list of academic achievements under his belt, he was entirely helpless when it came to navigating the more trivial kind of interactions. Muzan wondered whether the other was even aware of how the short reply spoke rather loudly of his wealthy origins. Public transportation wasn't exactly an alternative to the vast majority, but the only option.
If Muzan were not already familiar with Yoriichi's tendency to voice things in a cryptic way, perhaps he might have confused that for entitlement.
❛ As do all of us. ❜ He did not refrain from allowing the amused irony to reach his words. And though he could have further probed the other for a more elaborate recount of his morning, he instead leaned back against his seat and fell silent for a moment, deeming Yoriichi's answer enough despite its brevity.
The silence extended for a few more seconds, plum red eyes watching the empty lecture hall.
❛ I heard the Physics Department intends to award you their highest research distinction. Quite the achievement for an undergraduate. ❜ His voice was laced in a matter-of-factly tone. Though he could still see Yoriichi from the corner of his eye, he did not turn to look at him fully, knowing well there would be little to see. It was a fact that achievements had a way of bringing forth an array of reactions in others. Even the humblest betrayed some flicker of vanity when offered recognition. But Muzan knew this universal fact didn't apply to this particular man. ❛ Of course it had to be you. ❜ The words escaped almost under his breath, akin to a passing thought.
Truth be told, Muzan had first regarded Yoriichi through the lens of irritation. He was someone who excelled effortlessly at everything placed before him; who seemed ambitionless and yet was still considered outstanding. Muzan, too, was intellectually flawless. But unlike Yoriichi, his achievements required permanent mental discipline. At first, the other had seemed more like a competitor to him. Rivalry, though, required mutual recognition. And Yoriichi never behaved as though they were opponents. He didn't seem to think of Muzan as lesser, but simply appeared to lack the interest of engaging in any form of competition. It made any attempt at antagonism senseless. Besides, they were pursuing different majors.
Furthermore, their current interactions also happened to be more interesting to him.
❛ You will attend the ceremony, I assume? ❜ Finally, his red gaze returned to look at Yoriichi. ❛ The university would collapse from grief if denied the opportunity to worship you properly. ❜ The impassive notes in his voice gave little hint about whether the slight curve on his lips was an amused or sarcastic one.
Yoriichi continued his existence as was normal. His breath relaxed and his eyes blinking when it struck their fancy, entirely oblivious to the fact that what he had said had spiked any negative reaction in the other. After all, it was merely a fact and the former demon king would likely have remembered their scheduled meeting - Aniue would have made sure of it.
Family meetings - Yoriichi was not quite sure who had started this tradition amongst them. Perhaps it had been uta, whose warm eyes and bubbly smile wanted everyone she knew to get along - maybe it had even been Aniue himself as Yoriichi's older brother had always liked subtly designing a five year plan that led to the outcome he had originally desired, where he laid out small puzzle pieces that would let the people around him build the road that led to his goal themselves. It could have been both of them, with how well Uta and Aniue had complemented each other - as Yoriichi always knew they would.
It was bittersweet to see them interact. The two most important people in Yoriichi's life. Enjoying each other's company as much as Yoriichi enjoyed theirs. It was heart-warming.
To be able to see his family up close so often...sharing presence...it fulfilled his dearest wish. And it was something Yoriichi had never envisioned possible ever again. Having believed his Aniue lost - at first because Aniue had not remembered the past...and then because he had once more found his side by what could only be categorised as evil incarnate.
But that was not quite the truth - as Yoriichi had been forced to realise. Truly, Yoriichi should have never underestimated his Aniue's capacity to love. He had always been so kind at heart after all. And aniue had made it rather clear that his heart in all its fullness - was enough to hold on tightly to both monster and man alike.
Yoriichi could never be as selfish as to make him choose one over the other.
And it had seemed, that Muzan Kibutsuji - despite his many cruel ways - could not ask that of his partner.
Because that was what they were. Sharing space, sharing their most vulnerable parts of themselves - and it was weird. Very weird. To imagine someone like Kibutsuji to have vulnerabilities at all, to have a shrivel of care for another in that all-consuming void of his. Even moreso that it was his Aniue that was the recipient of that single droplet of love. But Aniue was happy, and Kibutsuji was not actively harming people, not anymore. So who was Yoriichi to judge his older twin's happiness?
If being able to spend time with his family had the price of including muzan Kibutsuji in it, then that was a price Yoriichi would gladly pay. For Aniue.
Muzan's reply was precise and correct, so Yoriichi merely continued existing in response. It was good to know that the other had been aware of his arrival. He took his meeting times with Aniue very seriously, having never once missed one.
Muzan seemed to be looking for something - Yoriichi distantly noticed- the way his eyes shifted to the entrance was interesting. Was he waiting for Aniue?
Yoriichi's flicker of curiosity was answered when Muzan spoke next.
Yes, Uta usually liked coming with him. She loved spending time with her brother-in-law and people in general, her sunny smile and gentle demeanour simply melting the heart's of those around her... but Uta had been so busy at work today that she hadn't been able to make it. Her textile business overrun with customer orders that she hadn't been able to ignore - although she had been very sad about it.
"Uta was busy." That deep soft-spoken gravitas his voice tended to carry ever-present as Yoriichi wordlessly followed the unspoken permission to enter the apartment- though once he had done so, he remained standing in the middle of the living room, seemingly entirely oblivious to how utterly awkward such an action was.
It was not out of discomfort but simply because Yoriichi did not know where Muzan wanted him to sit. This was after all, the former demon's place and Yoriichi had no interest in unintentionally disrespecting the other - because then Aniue would likely have to do damage control. And though Yoriichi trusted his Aniue to sort out any perceived slights, he also did not want to make him do more work than he already was.
Speaking of Aniue... where was he? It was unlike him to not be around even a few hours prior to agreed meetings: "Is Aniue okay?"
The answer, though a confirmation of what Muzan could infer given said woman's absence, still served to further cement the realization that they were very much alone. A fact that left him feeling stranded in a rather abrupt way. It was a practice that had established itself on its own ever since these meetings became something routinary: relying on the presence of another person —particularly Uta— to soften the edges of their interactions. It wasn't that Muzan enjoyed her company specifically. She was tolerable enough, he supposed. But Muzan did not seek her presence out of fondness. She was simply useful in diluting the tension, redirecting silences into conversation before they became oppressive.
❛ I see. ❜ The succinct reply escaped past his lips as the other made his way into the apartment, seemingly ignoring the discomfort that hung between them. Or, maybe, not even feeling it. That impassiveness of his seemed to remain untouched, as though being alone together wasn't an uncomfortable notion.
Muzan envied him for that.
Or perhaps hated him.
He could not tell the difference anymore.
Plum red eyes stole another glance at the empty corridor, this time almost as if expecting to see Michikatsu coming back from his errand. He stood with a hand resting against the handle for a second longer than necessary, before he finally closed the door and followed Yoriichi into the living room.
The apartment was immaculate, as usual—- a reflection of Muzan's strong inclination towards order and structure. Disorder happened to irritate him on a level that felt almost physiological. It was, perhaps, the result of a life spent trying to avoid symptoms that worsened with even the slightest forms of negligence. Unstable conditions had never aided his equally unstable heart. And now, even when his illness had morphed into something more manageable, the habits had remained, as though deeply imprinted. The only place slightly cluttered was the room that housed the results of his post-surgery restlessness. Paintings that only Michikatsu had seen.
Yoriichi's question cut cleanly through his thoughts, the mention of Michikatsu anchoring him back into the room with an almost imperceptible blink. Even so, he allowed silence to extend for a moment, before he moved again—- crossing the living room towards one of the armchairs positioned near the windows and seating there, maybe in an attempt at establishing some form of normalcy. He then adjusted his posture slightly, smoothing the line of his sleeve with one of his hands.
❛ He went to the convenience store. He should be back soon. ❜ The reply was followed by a brief pause. ❛ He insisted on cooking. ❜ There was no particular emphasis in that last statement, only a completion of context that explained Michikatsu's current absence. It wasn't a rare occurrence for Michikatsu to take over the kitchen. In fact, it was him who cooked for them both on the daily, having more or less ousted the cook his mother had lent him for his recovery after the surgery. Not that Muzan minded. Michikatsu had been careful to learn about his eating restrictions since the very beginning, and even managed to add some much welcomed variety to his diet. Therefore, it was hardly surprising that he chose to cook for this occasion.
His gaze returned to Yoriichi, eyes narrowing with some sort of perplexity when they found the other still on his feet in the middle of the living room.
How strange he was. There wasn't even anything performative in his actions. Perhaps that was the unsettling part. The other didn't seem to be trying to appear intimidating or composed. He simply was.
Muzan couldn't say he was certain what was supposed to come next. Though after a moment he finally settled for yet another pretense of hospitality.
❛ You can sit. ❜ 'Anywhere. It does not matter.' Though left unsaid, surely these words were implied in his tone.
The one who bore his fate in their hands at last interrupted the loaded silence of the room through his entry. The blinds raising as kibutsuji-samas son utilised elegant yet careful steps to conquer the room - the precision of said patient steps suggesting the true extent of the frail state hidden away by costly ornaments that belied his status.
Michikatsus own sense of self had still been utterly entranced by his own musings, the return to the external proving difficult due to the numb feeling that continued to engulf his every sentiment... the heaviness of his inner world causing a sense of surrealism so strong that anything aside from the slight aversion of eyes and barest of head tilts could not be executed within his body.
It had been a truth hidden beneath the layers of responsibility michikatsu had always felt towards his family... but that did not mean said core did not persist.. akin to a stubborn part of his heart that simply could not be removed despite the shame others would likely feel in his stead: the kneeling to authority had always been of a difficult nature for michikatsu. Authority that had earned the act of submission had never been a problem... and yet it was those enigmatic figures at the top of their delusions whose spirits spoke of shallow expectation of loyalty and adherence that had always made michikatsus stomach feel nauseous.
This was not precisely the case with kibutsuji-samas son.. it was merely a general truth that michikatsu had done his best to contain, having always prioritised his family's survival... and yet... now such a goal would no longer be his to look after.
He did not quite know where that left him now.
No, michikatsus minimal expression of subservience towards the heir had not been born out of disrespect.. it had simply felt.. wrong... to even entertain a gesture he could not bring himself to mean in this very moment. He had always been good at concealing... not at pretending.. and his mental state was far too lost within murky waters to even begin to properly register the nerve frazzling reality of the situation outside of the private sanctuary of his mind.
Although his lack of actions had not been intended as any sort of offense... it was a good thing that the heir had not even bothered to pay michikatsu any heed in those exact seconds.
Despite himself, michikatsu couldn't quite shake off the feeling that the other would not have cared even if he had seen michikatsus minimalistic approach.
Whilst It did not alleviate the tension within his heart.. it also did not overload it either.
When michikatsu finally did muster up the strength to meet the others eyes a few second later... he was confronted with deep pools of read that could only fascinate. The slight narrowing of those magnetising eyes hinted at a deep well of intelligence. One that michikatsu willingly allowed to catalogue him to the other's heart content.
Just as he himself took the quiet time to study those elegant features that were accentuated by the delicate paleness of the skin. The other appeared entirely unaware of the soft harmony of his striking features and how the heaviness around his eyes only proceeded to spark the tender urge of fingers lightly caressing along those exhausted lines. Otherwise the young lord would not be trailing the impression of bitterness within his heart to such a degree.
Although... the unapologetic authenticity of his mood, the lack of attempt to conceal the traits that others would cement as sickly... it spoke towards the type of person that kibutsuji-samas son was...
A force of nature.
It was no wonder... that the world had set its sights upon inconveniencing this one to the best of its abilities. Reality was not particularly fond of those that could not be controlled.
Lost within his contemplation of his new duty, michikatsus attention of the actual matter at hand was drawn back by the heirs words. He could not say he midned the direct tone. It was rather adept at cutting right through to the heart of the matter... and one that threatened to pull michikatsus mind back underwater.. and deeper into the cloth that sought to dampen his perception.
Of course he had been aware of the political machinations of kibutsuji-samas actions. They had whispered to him in the way kibutsuji-sama had surveilled his every breath with an air of venom filled regard... not directed towards michikatsu himself... but the plot that had been formulating itself within the family heads mind. It had simply been registered as an undercurrent truth, a fact not even worth debating or pondering. Nothing but a footnote in the grand schemes of things. As michikatsu hedged no interest in bemoaning matters of which he possessed no control over.
It was most likely a different perspective for kibutsuji-samas heir. The fierceness of the heirs spirit obvious to all to see.
"Yes.."
There was no point in denying the truth, and the others words had bore the request of a direct response... furthermore there just seemed to he something about kibutsuji muzan that made it difficult to... to pretend... to be anything but direct with the truth, the feeling akin to his throat closing up before he could add any honorifics in this particular context.
The naturally commanding depth of his baritone did not bely his true feelings, his lips set in a neutral line... and yet his eyes bore a quiet melancholy that spoke of a weary awareness.
It couldn't be said that the succinct answer was expected. Throughout his life, Muzan had learned a consistent truth about those around him: they did not speak plainly. Instead, they adapted; choosing their words not for their accuracy, but based on what would be received well. Directness was rare. Unfiltered honesty, rarer still.
Muzan studied the other more precisely. He did not look the part of a servant; said detail betraying his true origin. There was certainly a difference between those who had been shaped by servitude all their lives, and one who had suddenly been forced into it. It was evident even in the simplest ways. Posture, for example. The average servant would have long since lowered themselves to their knees. Yet this one stood there, looking out of place, like a spring blossom caught in an untimely frost. Unable even to address the young lord properly. Not that Muzan cared for such theatrics in the face of the irritation his father had provoked. There would be time for that later.
The young lord exhaled, weariness beginning to make itself known. Muzan preferred standing. It preserved the illusion of strength and gave him some manner of control over the impression he made. The illness that plagued him was easier to suppress when his weight was shared equally across both feet. A resting position, on the other hand, would reveal just how much effort his mere existence required.
But even said illusion had its limits.
He shifted faintly where he stood. An almost imperceptible movement as a pulse of weakness curled beneath his ribs and reached his heart, seizing it in a tight grip. Even something as trivial as remaining on his own two feet demanded effort; one that could no longer be ignored as the faint tremor of fatigue grew beneath the surface.
His body's quiet demand for relief was an annoyance, yet through experience alone he had learned that it would be counterproductive to ignore it. And so, without looking at the other, he stepped toward the platformed floor at the head of the room, lowering himself into a cross-legged position upon the woven mats and letting the layered silk of his robes pool around him. Despite his physical frailty, he forced each movement to appear seamless. Only the slightest ease of tension at his shoulders betrayed the true reason behind the action.
Regardless, his gaze remained composed when it lifted again.
❛ And are you content with that? ❜ The question was accompanied by the slightest tilt of the head. The bitterness —old and deeply-rooted— that always existed within him, fed by years spent watched, pitied, and measured against healthier sons, deepened as he spoke. ❛ Men like my father enjoy humiliating those who do not meet their expectations, ❜ he began. He knew this to be true. This cruelty had never been unfamiliar to him. It had presented itself constantly throughout his life.
❛ You were sent here not to repay a debt, but as punishment to your family. Because serving me is shameful. There is no honor in tending to a dying invalid. ❜ The smooth elegance of his voice lowered, the bitterness becoming more evident as those last two words emerged drenched in something much colder. It was all he had: words. He could not wield iron, and could only scarcely stand long enough to fulfill the rigid ceremonies of court. Words were the only weapon his sickness allowed him to carry.
Not that Michikatsu was truly the intended recipient of his anger. They were both being humiliated by the same man, after all. And Muzan wasn't blind to the signs of awareness that lingered in those maroon eyes.
❛ Do you not resent that? Are you not angry? ❜ It didn't matter what the other felt, either way. It changed nothing about this arrangement. Neither of them had the power to change these circumstances. And it would be a lie were he to say he had ever stopped to consider, much less care, about the feelings of servants. It wasn't the answer itself that Muzan sought. But that first display of truthfulness had interested him. It made him wonder whether it would remain intact even under pressure.
