Chapter Text
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01.
Now that they're at the height of summer, Kyojuro is secretly glad for their new nocturnal training sessions. The night air is much more forgiving than the furnace of the daytime, and there's a certain peace to a warm summer breeze beneath the stars.
The timing is, of course, first and foremost for Akaza, who has done the unthinkable: an Upper Moon who's broken Muzan's curse and allied with the Corps. Not without a wealth of scowling and guardedness, mind you, but here he is nonetheless – sparring with several Kinoto at the other end of the training grounds.
The sight is still somewhat unbelievable. Not just Akaza, invited willingly into the estate of a Hashira other than Kyojuro's, but Akaza, in battle against demon slayers, training them instead of killing. Kyojuro follows the familiar forms of his martial arts, clocking the ease with which Akaza deflects the Kinoto's fervent strikes, all with an expression of boredom on his face.
Barely a challenge, Kyojuro surmises, and marvels that Akaza continues to humour it.
Beside him, taking a break from their own bout of sparring, Tengen lets out a low impressed whistle.
The sound strikes a small flame of pride in Kyojuro. He can't help but feel pleased at any and all signs of acknowledgement for Akaza. It's more than just wanting the other slayers to see Akaza as a boon of information and battle prowess; for the past year, Akaza has been the teasing smile at his periphery, the matching footfalls at his side, the careful attentive hands at his wounds. Kyojuro wants them to see the parts of Akaza that deserve a second chance; the startling humanity buried within the contempt of it. To be captured by it, just as Kyojuro was. (Months ago, Kyojuro would've met any insinuation that he'd vouch for a demon with incredulity. But now, for Akaza, it's as involuntary as the next thrum of his heart.)
Kyojuro glows with the contentment of the moment. The satisfaction of a good spar with Tengen, this nebulous yet hopeful future with Akaza, and the simple joy of a pleasant summer night. A fleeting peace, sure, but it's hard to find its faults amidst good company and cricket song.
"Sooo," Tengen drawls into the easy silence. "Do they go all the way down?"
Caught up in his good mood, Kyojuro hums gamely. "What does?"
"You know. Your pet demon's markings." Furrowing his brow, Kyojuro turns to Tengen, watching him mime a three-fingered claw motion over one eye. "Is it all the same–"
Tengen promptly shatters Kyojuro's precious peace by pointing downwards.
For a moment, Kyojuro can only stare at his friend with a frozen smile, as uncomprehending as if they were speaking in different languages. He hears the words, but understanding them is another matter. Do Akaza's markings–?
The stark patterns across Akaza's skin are as familiar to Kyojuro as his fighting forms– or so he thought, because now that Tengen asks, Kyojuro realises he doesn't know. He's never thought to consider it. He's memorised the triplet of curves over Akaza's eyes, the rings around his neck, the lines that zip over his arms and flow down his sternum. Even the striping against his sides that continues onto his lower back, jutting down into his waistband and–
Do Akaza's markings–?
"I have never thought to ask!" Kyojuro exclaims, too loud even by his usual standards. At Tengen's raised eyebrows, he adds, "Nor will I!"
A firm dismissal, Kyojuro decides, for an absurd question. The only reasonable answer would be none at all!
Now it's Tengen's turn to look baffled. "Hang on," he says, the disbelief in his voice rising like the tide. "You mean you don't know? Aren't you both–?"
At Kyojuro's equally baffled silence, Tengen raises both hands to mime something obscene. With the snake-strike quickness of someone with a baby sibling, Kyojuro slaps his hands over Tengen's dirty charades. If his own eyes startle any wider, they're going to pop out of his skull.
"What is with your sudden interest in miming!?" Kyojuro asks. "I'm not sure I'm a fan!"
"Not very flashy, I know," Tengen agrees, completely missing the point. He jerks his head towards Akaza's direction. "But an Upper Moon's hearing must be pretty good. I thought I'd be discreet, for once."
"I think you do not know the meaning of 'discreet'," Kyojuro says, lowering his voice because someone has to set an example. Tengen, missing the point again, preens at his words. "That was not a compliment. Akaza is my ally and my friend." Levelling Tengen with a stern stare, he continues. "I would appreciate if you did not ask me inappropriate questions about him– and if you would not refer to him as my 'pet'."
From the side of his mouth, Tengen mutters, "Not like he'd mind."
The back of Kyojuro's neck burns in a way that has nothing to do with the summer heat. "Tengen."
Unrepentant, Tengen waggles his eyebrows at Kyojuro. With the clasp he already has around Tengen's hands, Kyojuro squeezes warningly, with a force that makes Tengen's bones creak a little. He leans in further, both to continue dissuading his friend and to keep his volume low, an action which Tengen mirrors thoughtlessly–
–and a chorus of yelps and thuds echo from across the courtyard.
Kyojuro blinks, turning immediately to where Akaza is. He feels Tengen do the same.
From the other end of the training grounds, Akaza is staring back at them. Surrounding him are the crumpled forms of the Kinoto – relatively unharmed but groaning in pain. Akaza seems both blind and deaf to the havoc he's wreaked. His strange stained glass eyes flare with a predatory fire.
Alarmed by Akaza's abrupt change in mood, Kyojuro searches him for any sign of injury – maybe one of the Kinoto managed to nick his neck? But Akaza is unwounded, even as his expression deepens into a glowering snarl; he seems focused on something between Kyojuro and Tengen. Before Kyojuro can discern what it might be, Akaza calls out.
"You. Headband." One arm rises slowly to point at Tengen. Akaza's muscles are coiled tight with tension, promising an abundance of pain and doom. Without the sounds of combat, the simmering rage in his voice carries clear across the courtyard. "I'm going to kill you now."
"Hmm?" A devilish smile splits across Tengen's face. "You can try!"
"Oh, I'm going to do more than try."
Watching their exchange, Kyojuro begins to frown. "Now, wait–"
Flipping his hands over between them, Tengen squeezes Kyojuro's hands back. The bloodlust emanating from Akaza doubles in intensity. Unperturbed, Tengen grins at Kyojuro. "You'll cheer flashily for me, won't you?"
Before Kyojuro can answer, there's a blur of pink and pale skin and he feels Tengen's hands disappear from his grasp. Tengen's laughter follows brightly on the heels of clashing cleavers and booming punches, so at least Kyojuro knows the situation isn't dire. But it's startling enough that Kyojuro puts everything else from his mind, too busy ensuring his friends don't kill each other.
The question of Akaza's markings isn't worth entertaining. Kyojuro will think on it no further.
* * * * *
02.
Kyojuro cannot stop thinking about it.
In the short span of a week, he's convinced he's completely lost his faculties, with the entirety of his self-respect soon to follow. There can be no other reason for why the question continues to turn over and over in his head, just like every dead slayer in their graves if they knew what their Flame Hashira was thinking about.
Do Akaza's markings go all the way down?
The thought surfaces again and again, like bobbing driftwood, and Kyojuro's repeated efforts to drown it have diminishing success.
Kyojuro's first mistake is thinking rationality will help.
A question answered ceases to be a question, and so – lulled by his own foolish simplicity – Kyojuro finally acquiesces to considering it. He's travelling between towns anyways, and with the sun rising above the treeline, he has only his own thoughts for company.
Like his hands, Akaza's feet are tipped in the same midnight blue, so it's not like his lower half is entirely bare of markings. It seems safe – logical, even – to assume Akaza's legs are similarly patterned. At first, Kyojuro even finds the idea of Akaza's legs being unmarked a little hilarious – an odd sense of nakedness, even for someone who parades around in that open cropped haori of his. Like the canvas of an unfinished artwork.
But consider, a voice says so very reasonably in his head, his calves are unmarked.
A vision of Akaza's legs, pale by his demonic nature and muscled by a century of training, crops up in Kyojuro's head. He imagines them clear of any markings; just an uninterrupted expanse of moonlit skin, a contrast to the patterns of his upper body so they somehow seem more bare–
Kyojuro's throat, suddenly very dry, clicks tellingly when he swallows.
His second mistake is his imagination.
In a terrible attempt to protect his friend's modesty, Kyojuro's visions of Akaza are – to put it bluntly – dickless. Or at least censored by convenient placements of cloud. But then the imaginary neutering starts to feel plain insulting, so Kyojuro politely starts conjuring up some poses. Akaza sitting with his leg stretched out, the other drawn up to his chest with a cheek resting on one knee. Akaza laying on his flank like a painter's muse, one arm casually extended over his pelvis and the other bent to prop up his upper body. Akaza on his knees, hands clasped over his lap and his head tilted with a smile, teasing when he says, Kyojuro, my eyes are up here–
Kyojuro, three years a Hashira and six as a trained member of the Corps, trips over nothing.
It's wrong.
It's so wrong.
On instinct, Kyojuro attributes his balking to the fact that Akaza is a demon. Their very existences are anathema to each other, their roles diametrically opposed. A demon is everything Kyojuro has been taught (and has learnt through experience) to revile, reject, and rage against. A demon is blood, cruelty, and death.
But Kyojuro knows Akaza is more than that. Akaza is the unabashed praise amidst battle, the satisfied smile when he makes Kyojuro laugh, the furrowed brow when he's treated with kindness. Akaza is a demon, yes– a demon who revolted against his own maker to stay by Kyojuro's side.
So no, it's wrong because it's so much worse than that. Akaza is someone Kyojuro trusts and admires. Akaza is Kyojuro's friend.
A fact that Kyojuro's mind fails to remember one morning as he wakes up too hot and too wired, emerging from a dream about dark blue lines rippling across thick thighs, a familiar laugh still echoing in his ears.
Half-asleep and unbearably hard, Kyojuro presses the heel of his hand over himself, gasping softly at the pleasure. It seems like just moments ago, Akaza was kneeling over him, strong legs bracketing Kyojuro's hips as he reclined back on one hand, lips curved into a mischievous crescent. Akaza's other hand had been playing with the head of Kyojuro's cock, almost cruelly casual, a tight ring created with his pointer finger and thumb to tease him with.
Kyojuro recreates it, eyes still closed as he teases himself. His moans staccato into the morning air. He digs his foot into his bedding, luxuriating in the feeling of it being too little, too much. Everything still feels soft-edged with sleep, sensations stretching out and ballooning. It's good. It feels good and yet–
Something's missing, Kyojuro thinks muzzily, even as his hips start to fuck more enthusiastically into his hand, chasing the desire for more. Akaza's weight atop him hadn't just felt pleasant; it had felt right. Kyojuro finds that he aches for it. With his other hand, he presses down on his own hip in poor imitation. He remembers the soft fat of Akaza's hip under his palm, the smooth firmness of his thighs, how they yielded when he dug his blunted nails in, just a little.
With a whine, Kyojuro moves his palm over the jut of his own hipbone, just to press against something. Skin rasping, soft, warm– but it isn't the same. It isn't Akaza.
The dream is already slipping from him, blurring further and further as his awareness creeps in. Kyojuro stubbornly hangs onto it tighter. Around Akaza's thighs, he had traced the dark blue patterns – inconsistent, shifting, unknown – with exploring fingertips. Trying to commit them to memory, even as Akaza languished his palm from the base to the tip of Kyojuro's cock, before teasing him with that tight circle again. A test of Kyojuro's focus. Akaza had only laughed.
Akaza asking, inviting, delighting, 'Do you like it?'
Kyojuro, not knowing if he meant his markings or the wicked ecstasy of his hand, answering, 'Yeah. Yes. Yes.'
The dream's detail slips from him just as Kyojuro comes. He turns into his pillow to muffle his shout, neck straining as his mind whites out with pleasure. Teeth-clenching, toe-curling pleasure. It's wonderful for about a minute, before Kyojuro properly wakes up and realises what he's done.
The shame of it should end everything. But even after his terrible lapse and all his careful rationalisations, Kyojuro still cannot help but turn the question over and over in his head.
Because now he's wondering if he prefers Akaza's legs marked with lines or left tantalisingly blank.
…Not that there's a preference to be had, or that he has any say.
(Regardless, both options make his hands flex around empty air, restless.)
It's even worse when Akaza is with him. Kyojuro can't help but stare. When Akaza is facing away from him, Kyojuro traces the ink-dark strokes with his eyes, as if an answer might be written there. He gets distracted when Akaza talks, eyes unfocusing as he tries to find a logic in the way the lines wrap around Akaza's body. The worst is when Akaza walks in front of him. Kyojuro will mulishly glue his gaze to the back of Akaza's head, determined not to let it stray. Yet he always finds it drifting down, down, down, where three parallel bands disappear into Akaza's pants.
And with the staring comes the noticing.
Just little things, like how Akaza's neck looks strangely elegant ringed by his collar-like markings, a contrast to the sturdy slope of his shoulders. Or just how small Akaza's waist is, emphasised by the striping at his sides and the lowness of his pants, which – to Kyojuro's torment – really are quite low, revealing too much of a trail of pink hair, winding its merry way towards–
"There's a trail here. Ready to follow it?"
"Definitely!" Kyojuro replies emphatically, mind both three worlds away and three centimetres from Akaza's waistline.
"Watch your step," Akaza warns.
Kyojuro blinks. "What?"
"The ground here is full of raised tree roots. Don't trip over yourself," Akaza says, pointing at the forest floor.
They're in the middle of a mission, Kyojuro remembers, returning to himself with a start. Hot on the tracks of an elusive demon. What in the world is he thinking about!?
Across him, Akaza cocks his head at Kyojuro, mouth flattening with concern. "Are you feeling alright, Kyojuro? You seem… distracted."
Actually, Akaza, the thought of you gets me so aroused, my brain is leaking out my ears! Kyojuro doesn't say, because that would well and truly be insane. He doesn't know how his self-restraint has unravelled so quickly and completely; only that it has, and Kyojuro is hopeless in the aftermath of it.
"I feel fine and normal!" Kyojuro lies, pumping one fist in front of him. "Let us focus on the mission!"
With an expression still darkened with doubt, Akaza's eyes roam across his face, searching. Kyojuro, anxious under the examination and desperate not to show it, continues to smile at him.
After a few seconds of uneasiness, Akaza relents, albeit reluctantly.
"If you say so, Kyojuro," he says, giving Kyojuro one last questioning look before forging ahead.
It's almost a relief when Akaza turns around. It means Kyojuro can no longer obsess over the trail of pink vining down his stomach.
'Almost', because Akaza is walking in front of him again.
With the air of a man who knows his exact and awful end, Kyojuro trains his eyes on the back of Akaza's head and desperately resolves not to look down.
` * ✦ * `