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The irony is not lost to Hakuji. It's so stupid that he almost wants to defy death if only to escape it being stuck in the Demon Slayer Corps records for eternity.
That the snow hashira died from a winter chill.
He stares at the flame and laments his lack of firewood. There's a leak in the hearth and every six seconds a droplet falls onto the burning wood. Drop by drop it will diminish the fire, soak the last of the wood and damn him to the cold.
The abandoned cottage has seen better days; there's a permanent draft and many holes in the roof and walls, letting the seething night in and doing little to provide proper shelter. He tugs the thin blanket tightly around himself and scooches closer to the fire.
It warms his front but it does little to ease the bone deep cold that has seeped into him and drawn a permanent shiver to his hands.
Hakuji has been here before.
He knows this feeling. Knows the evil of the dead of night in the deep of winter. He knows how close to death he lies.
In the slums of Tokyo, Hakuji had borne witness to the frozen blue bodies of the homeless unable to find proper warmth. He has seen the devolution into illness, into black feet and fingers. He's seen the way people go to sleep and never wake up (worried over Dad's cold form as he shivered through the night).
And his own eyes are heavy. Tiredness weighs thick on his breath, and if he didn't know that it was death's invitation, he would fall asleep without a second thought.
Is this how you felt, Koyuki, He wonders, That night they left you in the snow?
It's a wretched thought. Hakuji doesn't like to think about how Koyuki must have suffered. It makes him think of how the illness robbed her of a childhood, how the well stole her future, of all the little ways she suffered in between. But snow is all around and everything tonight carries a memory of her.
Time slowly begins to lose coherency. The fire dances wildly as it dodges and bends to dripping of the water.
Hours or minutes pass with nothing but the baying wind to keep him company.
At least I finished the mission.
At least I saved some people before I died.
Sleep calls like a siren, coaxing him with small sweet hands.
The fire goes out.
His eyes close.
A phantom touch rests on his hand, and he would recognize it anywhere.
Koyuki.
The door slams open. Wind howls and jack knifes through the small cottage.
"There you are!"
Hakuji startles from the ball he's curled up into. His gaze flies to the door, and without the light of the fire all he can make out are twin burning eyes aglow in the dark.
He would recognize them anywhere.
He rasps in ire, "Oh, for the love of--"
"It is rather difficult to track someone through a winter storm!" Rengoku marches in and carefully shuts the door behind him, "Of course, such difficulties would not stop me from seeing my favorite human!"
Hakuji huffs out a long and tired sigh. He curls back up into a ball and buries his head into his arms. A part of him is not surprised. A rather large part of him.
Rengoku has a habit of popping up out of nowhere at the most random of times. This is not even the first time he has arrived when Hakuji was in peril.
Rengoku approaches. His steps are audible, a purposeful courtesy to Hakuji's guarded nature.
"Hm, the humans in the area were quite concerned I might pass away if I weathered the cold tonight," The demon stops next to him, his presence a familiar oppressive shroud, near comforting in the way it scorches the air. "Dying again, Hakuji?"
Hakuji grunts into his arms. "I couldn't reach the village in time," He mutters.
And Rengoku sighs like a disappointed mother. The air shifts as he falls to a crouch, his body heat caressing Hakuji's skin. "Why did you not prepare for the weather if you were going out so far into the forest?"
Hakuji doesn't deign to answer that.
His silence elicits another sigh. "Oh, Hakuji," And the air shifts again. A thud vibrates across the ground as the demon sits properly, "Something needs to be done about this death wish of yours."
Then Hakuji is grabbed. He startles, his dampened heart picks up.
It is the cold that has stiffened him and weakened him, and it is the sheer warmth of Rengoku's grasp that make instincts stay Hakuji's hand. Which is why Rengoku is easily able to pull the hashira into his lap.
Were they in any other situation, Hakuji would rend Rengoku's hands from his arms. But like a hearth fire, he radiates an intoxicating heat and Hakuji's instincts immediately recognizes his hold as salvation. So he lets himself be situated in Rengoku's arms, back to his solid torso.
He is allowing this because he's not that stupid, if sitting in the lap of the walking thorn in his side will keep him alive, then so be it.
He should die by the hands of a demon, die protecting people, to do otherwise would be copping out.
Muscular arms wrap around Hakuji and Rengoku curls into him like a child clutching a doll. He is a large demon, easily as tall as Douma and broad with the strength of a well trained body. He envelopes Hakuji easily.
The warmth that bleeds off of him is divine, and Hakuji cannot stop the animal way he relaxes against the hold. His feet draw in and he leans into Rengoku before his mind can catch up with what he's doing.
Something tells him that he shouldn't allow this looseness, should stay tense and guarded. But he can't bring himself to listen to it, not right now, not when the wrath of a winter's night is buried deep in his body.
And he's still trying to catch up with the change of events when something is draped over his form. A soft fabric, weathered and worn around the edges and warmed from Rengoku's immense heat -- it takes a moment before it clicks. His haori.
Rengoku wraps his arms back around Hakuji and a chin rests on top of his head.
Hakuji is completely encompassed by him.
This is not the first time Rengoku has saved Hakuji's life, and in many ways this turn of events isn't the slightest bit surprising. But never have they been so close, touched so much.
Addled by the cold as he is, the intimacy of it is only a secondary register. But in the back of his mind, Hakuji wonders at the proximity. When was the last time someone touched him outside of sparring?
When was the last time he allowed it?
It feels strange and foreign. Rengoku is far warmer than a human, his bare front is solid and the skin of his arms is rough. He's wrapped around Hakuji like he can't fathom letting go, firm and unyielding and yet so terribly gentle it nearly makes Hakuji want to scream.
Hakuji pulls his blanket tighter around himself, as though the flimsy cotton will shield him from the closeness.
Rengoku rumbles low in his chest. It sends vibrations out to Hakuji's back.
"You are too reckless," The demon utters, hints of petulance in his tone, "Have I not given you many reasons to live?"
Hakuji snorts. His voice comes out weak, shaken from the chill, "What do you care?"
"I care!" Rengoku gives him a short squeeze him, "How are you going to become a demon if you're dead?!"
Hakuji grunts. "I'm not becoming a demon."
"I need to try harder to convince you, it seems!"
"You won't convince me."
"I will! I'm not giving up on you!"
Like always, it's in one ear and right out the other with this upper moon. Hakuji huffs. He crosses his arms on top of Rengoku's and rests his chin on it. And Rengoku follows the action, keeping his own chin nestled atop Hakuji's head.
They have had this conversation time and again and it always ends up the same.
Hakuji scowls. This demon is delusional, blinded by his strange obsession with Hakuji. It is something the hashira can't even begin to understand.
"Doesn't your master have anything to say about you saving the life of a hashira?" He mutters.
"Indeed! We have talked at length on the matter and she is supportive of my efforts!" Rengoku gives Hakuji another quick squeeze, "She is in agreement, you will make a fine demon!"
Oh great. Even the demon queen wants him to become a demon. There will certainly be no end to Rengoku's campaigning until one of them kicks the bucket.
Would he even let me die?
"I have not met a human as demonic as you! You were born to be one! Why, you even have fangs!" And Rengoku speaks with such a fawning endearment that Hakuji knows there's no ill intent behind those words.
And that makes it burn all the more. Something dark and twisted roils up and overflows, oily and filthy and rotting. It's a familiar sensation, but it hurts no less for it. Instead it is a putrid reminder of everything.
Every bone broken to these "protecting fists", every single one of sixty seven lives taken by nothing more than bare hands. Every sin committed, every failure.
Because Rengoku is right. Hakuji is a monster. He was branded one as a child and only lived up to its name.
You were born to be a demon.
You were born a demon.
It makes sense, Hakuji supposes, that someone like him would gain the affections of a creature as monstrous as Upper Moon three.
It suits him, like the worst of second skins.
His jaw clenches and his fists bloom warmth in their shaking strain.
And his hands are delicately grabbed.
Rengoku's large claws take his fists in hand and the touch is so gentle that Hakuji forgets to breathe. His grip loosens in shock and Rengoku uncurls his finger.
There is a belated sting and a wetness in his palms. And it is too dark for Hakuji to see, but he knows he is bleeding.
"Don't do that," Rengoku says, so much softer than his normal boisterous tone, "You shouldn't hurt something so precious."
Hakuji grimaces. His lip curls off his teeth as something contemptuous rises up, "Shut up."
"No." It's spoken firmly, not loudly or fervently, but with the authority of a general in battle. He stills, he has never heard Rengoku speak like that before.
"I can smell your distress," Rengoku continues, thumbs caressing his wrists in soothing circles, "You should not feel such a way when being praised. You are precious, Hakuji, I will repeat it until you believe me."
Hakuji's chest picks up like war drums and a cacophony of emotions bursts forth, twisting his snarl into an unsettled scowl. "You shouldn't give such shitty praise," He says.
Rengoku pauses, "What did I say?" And he speaks it with such innocence that Hakuji has to bite back a bitter laugh. Of course he doesn't understand.
"Are you stupid?" He grits out, "You called a demon slayer demonic and you thought I would take it as a compliment? Get it into your head, Rengoku, I don't want to be a demon. I kill demons and I like killing demons."
"No you don't."
Hakuji blinks.
" What?" He hisses.
"I can sense joy, Hakuji. You have none when you kill demons. You are only angry."
Hakuji's eyes narrow, his heart patters off kilter and discomfort rises with that oil and silt from deep within. "What if I like being angry?"
"You don't!" And Rengoku has the gall to laugh. His chest rumbles against Hakuji, "You like taking care of your humans! You are happy playing nurse!"
Hakuji grunts. Rengoku has been to the Winter Estate, where Hakuji tends to injured slayers. The first time he showed up out of the blue, Hakuji had been prepared for a bloodbath. He'd walked on eggshells for months in fear that demons would invade. But nothing ever happened.
Perhaps Rengoku keeps its location a secret because he knows that if he caused the deaths of Hakuji's patients, any good graces between them would be gone -- something which the demon seems to cherish greatly.
And often when Hakuji is at the estate, if he focuses hard enough, he can feel the flicker of Rengoku's burning presence. He knows he watches on.
He is reminded now of just that. Heat blooms across his face. Despite the stalking, he didn't think Rengoku would figure him out so quickly, peel away his mountainous walls with a few words and watch it all tumble down with that stupid grin on his face.
"I'm good at it," Hakuji says, voice quieter than he intended, the resolve he meant to put in there lacking any true form, "Killing demons."
"You are!" Rengoku says with glee, "You are properly magnificent on the battlefield! If only you knew how beautiful you look bathed in blood."
A choked sound escapes Hakuji's chest before he can catch it, and suddenly he does not feel cold but rather warm.
Rengoku chuckles and wraps himself more firmly around Hakuji. "Very beautiful, it makes me want to devour you in ways that have nothing to do with food."
"Don't say that when I'm in your lap!" Hakuji barks, his shout weathered into a rasp from the waning chill.
"Why shouldn't I?" Rengoku chortles. He nuzzles into Hakuji's hair, "I have you all to myself right now, of course my thoughts are wandering to carnal places!"
And the heat spreads across Hakuji's skin even as anxiety rises. And Hakuji realises how helpless he is at this moment, how skin meets skin, "Don't do anythi--"
"I would never," And suddenly the mirth is gone from Rengoku's voice. "I am not a monster."
And cobwebs clog up Hakuji's throat. His mouth thickens as the words come out all wrong, "You're a demon."
"I am not a monster." Rengoku reiterates. His body grows hotter in his ire -- not enough to burn, but enough to heat the air.
Despite the burgeoning tenseness around them, it feels nice, and Hakuji melts into the growing warmth before he can stop himself.
But still, he speaks, "You eat people."
"Only those unworthy of the gift of life."
"And who are you to decide that, huh?"
Rengoku answers seamlessly, "I am me."
"You're delusional."
"Oh Hakuji," And Rengoku settles back down as quickly as he had bristled. He offers another squeeze and plants his cheek on Hakuji's head, "I will wait an eternity for you to understand."
"I'll die of old age before that happens," Hakuji says flatly. He's done with this conversation. He never gets anywhere with Rengoku. Neither have conceded anything since the beginning of their strange relationship and tonight is clearly not the night Rengoku will finally get his head out of his ass.
"You would die much sooner if I left you to your own devices," Rengoku mutters petulantly.
And given the situation Hakuji is in, well, he can't exactly argue on that one.
It's a reminder of the cold outside of Rengoku's warm embrace and how close to death he was. It feels unreal.
He buries his head in his arms and frowns, "...Thanks," He finally mumbles, "For keeping me warm."
"Of course," Rengoku smiles into his hair, "Of course, my darling."
War drums pound within his chest and fire pools in his cheeks. How easily Rengoku sears him. Scorches him deep and brands him in flame.
How easily he drags Hakuji from the winter's wrath.
"One day," Rengoku breathes, "You'll see what I see. You'll understand why life is worth forsaking death."
And with the flames inside of him, ignited by this demon, Hakuji is terrified that he will.