Kokushibo's compliance, though expected, pulled the curve further along Muzan's lips. The other's movement was preceded by a brief hint of resistance—- a subtle stiffness in the moon's jaw. Yet it lasted no longer than a heartbeat, the demon king's attention falling instead upon the action that followed. Unhurried. Controlled. As though Kokushibo acknowledged the uncompromising hand that guided him, while retaining his own composure.
The latter was a remarkable thing, and Muzan could not help but savor said nuance. It was a calm movement in the face of a touch that would have unnerved any other. After all, there always had been something in the progenitor's touch that demanded distance—- something threatening, something that left no room to breathe. Few could endure Muzan's touch without recoiling, without shrinking back instinctively. Fear was an automatic response to the suffocating pressure of the demon king's proximity.
But Kokushibo did not recoil. He never had.
The progenitor's thumb traced the skin beneath the other demon's chin, quietly working its way to the wound that had been exposed, circling it. Muzan's eyes lingered there, on the flesh blood that painted the moon's skin like an imperfection upon an otherwise unblemished canvas, and the slow motions of flesh that attempted to heal.
For a wound inflicted by that monster's blade, it bore a conspicuous absence of lethal intent. Muzan needed not to speculate to recognize this. The demon lord was acquainted with what such a sword could accomplish when unrestrained. His own flesh had endured its full intent, and even now the wounds persisted—– always burning like the sun, never fully healed.
Had time dulled the once mighty swordsman? Had age —inevitable even to one such as him— weakened his hand? Such were notions that, though Muzan briefly deliberated on, did not endure, met instead with quiet dismissal. No. Such a man could not falter so simply. The sun breather had not succumbed to the mark that had undone the rest of the pillars. Even the power of time seemed insufficient against him.
And so, the only option that remained was much more entertaining.
Hesitation. A resolve that had faltered before his brother, if only for a moment, yet enough to alter the outcome.
The realization elicited amusement, though it wasn't the kind that merited laughter. Instead, it was one that introduced a faint shift upon Muzan's expression, in the form of a subtle change within plum red eyes that would easily pass unnoticed to the untrained eye.
Such a man succumbing to something so profoundly human, hesitating at the sight of his own kin enough to falter in the execution of his lifelong pursuit of cleansing the world of the demon king's influence...
The irony was both exquisite and pitiful.
❛ It is not so severe. ❜ Not as the wounds the demon king had sustained. This comparison was implicit in Muzan's words. ❛ It will heal. ❜ The pause that followed his words was unhurried and calculated. His thumb moved again beneath the wound, his hold upon Kokushibo remaining unwavering. Within the silence that extended then, the progenitor's expression hardened, earlier amusement shifting into something colder.
The wound would heal, yes. But there was something almost intolerable about the way it continued to endure. It seemed akin to an intrusion, a trespass upon what had been intended to remain inviolable.
It was most curious how the sight of this minor imperfection on Kokushibo's form bothered him, how it displeased him to see evidence of an injury in the former slayer. How it provoked something sharper than indifference. The demon king had never cared for his creations. Not in any sense that implied attachment. He had watched them be destroyed, erased utterly, reduced to nothing... and their loss had done nothing to disturb his composure, or so much as stir even the faintest form of sentiment. Those disgusting creatures were mere tools whose value rested only in their usefulness. And tools were replaceable.
Kokushibo was not meant to bleed. Not in any way that suggested vulnerability. Second to the demon lord himself, the former slayer had been reshaped beyond the flaws that governed lesser beings. His form was not meant to yield, and the blood that flowed within him ( an abundance of which bore Muzan's own imprint, entwined beyond separation with Kokushibo's own ) was not meant to be spilled by another's hand.
Surely then, it was only natural for displeasure to appear at the sight of such a mark upon his strongest creation.
His hands shifted, not releasing Kokushibo, but adjusting. The wetness that reached his fingers from the other demon's eyes did not elicit a reaction, even as they encased the moon's jaw once more with the same possessive insistence. The pressure was inescapable, a renewed attempt at pulling Kokushibo's attention into Muzan's orbit.
There was no concealing the way cat-like eyes narrowed upon finding that same unfocused dullness in the other’s gaze, bereft of its customary intensity.
It remained for too long. And Muzan had little tolerance for what he could not control.
The intrusion was immediate. Like a vast and suffocating shadow that forced itself through a space occupied by light, the demon king’s presence unfurled through Kokushibo’s mind.
‘You hold onto ties you severed when you became mine.’ Each word came into existence directly in Kokushibo’s thoughts, coiling around other demon’s consciousness like a serpent, in a way that left no room for separation.
