ao3 handle: yeosakoi

fever (i want to suffer from you)

His fingers tighten around the hilt of his blade. "Why are you following me?"

Akaza strolls closer, steps almost languid. "Why am I following you?" There isn't an ounce of fear in him as he leans forward, nearly brushing noses with Kyojurou. "Because I missed you of course, Kyojurou."

(or: for what must be the nth time, kyojurou and akaza fight)

A deathly silence is settled over the forest.

Not a leaf flutters by. Trees seem to hold their breath, branches still and trunks rooted deeply into the ground. Even the creatures of the woods are silent, nestled in their nests and burrows and bushes.

Everything is where it should be, where it belongs: each grain of dirt wedged where it had been, leaves twined to their respective positions on their branches. Only one sound ripples around the thicket: the crunch of Kyojurou's feet against dirt, followed by the soft whistle of his clothes as they shift in place, haori ruffling with every step. Somewhere in the distance, the chirps of cicadas can be heard.

Everything is where it belongs, but not quite.

Kyojurou's feet slow to a stop. A singular palm, calloused from years of strenuous training and exposure to countless afflictions, settles itself onto the hilt of his blade. Not a creature breathes.

"Akaza." It is not a greeting, nor a notice of hostility. Merely an acknowledgment.

For a moment, there is nothing. The forest continues to be quiet, with the exception of Kyojurou's strong, steady breathing. The silence does nothing to fool Kyojurou—even now, he can feel it: the presence that has been shadowing him for what must be dozens of minutes, light and secretive. A familiar presence, one he can sense even with his eyes shut tight, pressing down on his eyelids heavily until he's struggling to open them.

Eye, as the other does not quite work right any longer.

A shuffle of branches. A crunch of leaves. Kyojurou does not even have to turn to know who it is, but he does anyway—never one to turn his back on a demon.

And there, perched on a branch, in all his nighttime glory, is Upper Moon Three. In the pale moonlight, the blue markings spider webbing his body seem to glow, pulsating soft, blue light. A grin curls his lips, precarious and sharp and disturbingly pretty—a sight Kyojurou is becoming more and more familiar with every passing day.

In one fluid move, he's bounding off the branch, landing lightly on his feet. "And here I thought your senses had been dulled—I was about to be severely disappointed in your weakening." That dangerous smile sharpens impossibly further as he prowls closer, akin to that of a wild beast cornering his prey. Kyojurou does not step back, even as Akaza draws within striking distance—he will never will run away from a demon, an Upper Moon at that. "I should not have expected any less from a Pillar—from you, Kyojurou."

There's a certain manner in which Akaza utters his name—not his family name nor his title, but his name. He pronounces it as if he has all the time in the world, as if the world kneels at his feet to hear him speak. Slowly, surely. Slathered in honey and faux sweetness as it rolls off his tongue, the acknowledgment suggesting intimacy, familiarity, between them that does not exist.

Should not exist.

The way Akaza says his name sends a shiver down his spine, has heat twisting and writhing through his veins, collecting in the pit of his stomach.

His fingers tighten around the hilt of his blade. "Why are you following me?"

Akaza strolls closer, relaxed, steps almost languid. "Why am I following you?" There isn't an ounce of fear in him as he leans forward, nearly brushing noses with Kyojurou. "Because I missed you, of course, Kyojurou."

Metal screeches as a blade is drawn and the tip of Kyojurou's red blade grazes Akaza's neck, blood spurting forth. Stray strands of pink hair flutter to the dirt.

The gash is already stitching itself up, skin weaving back together with obscene, slick sounds. Left behind is a stretch of unmarred, smooth skin, as if Kyojurou had not slashed his blade at all. The inhumane display never fails to have Kyojurou's stomach clench unpleasantly, bile rising to his throat. Unfazed, Akaza does not spare the wound a second glance, as if he had not brushed death just moments ago—if anything, the attack only serves to widen the grin on his face, excitement glinting brighter in his eyes.

"I see you haven't weakened at all—in fact, I think you may have improved-" Another slash of Kyojurou's blade has him dancing backward, pupils waning into slits. "So worked up already, today. Usually, we have a nice chat before we get to fighting-"

His blade strikes against the flesh of Akaza's hand, easily severing away at it. Akaza cocks his head at the bleeding stump of his hand, almost transfixed. "And I say it again and again, I will not waver. My answer remains the same."

A heavy sigh. "I should have expected nothing else."

And then he launches himself at Kyojurou.

It is a dance Kyojurou has grown far too familiar with, fighting with Akaza—familiar enough it should concern him how easily he can read Akaza's attacks and traits, how it is almost second nature for him to defend himself against the other. They lunge and pounce, a whirlwind of kicks and slashes and jabs and bodies crashing against each other, smoldering eyes locked onto each other's.

Euphoria seems to radiate from the demon as he defends and attacks, enthusiasm bleeding from him with such ferocity one would believe Akaza is having the time of his life. Kyojurou's blade brushes against his neck and he barks a laugh, loud and wild and sanity fraying at the edges, pupils blowing wide. "Ah, I really did miss you!" He leers before he's charging at Kyojurou, fist slinging back, a frenzied smile playing across his lips. Kyojurou dives away from the surely fatal attack just in the nick of time, dirt and dust digging into the palms of his hands. There's no doubt they're bleeding from the impact, but it's the least of his concerns.

"Why do you continue to stalk me?" Kyojurou shouts as they skid to a stop, opposite one another, chest heaving with pants while Akaza seems wholly unaffected, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "When you know that I will never change my answer?"

His smile stretches impossibly wider, maniac, insane, nothing short of demonic. "Because I enjoy fighting you, Kyojurou. You are-" He points to the other, "-the only human who has managed to earn my respect, convinced me that perhaps being human does not mean being weak. Imagine what you could do as a demon—imagine what we could do. Together!"

Together, together. The word echoes in his head, rings against his eardrums.

"Become a demon, Kyojurou. Join me." An icy palm extends itself in his direction, a palm he had severed just minutes ago. Blue-tipped fingers curl just slightly, almost innocent, almost convincing.

For a singular moment, a lifetime passes before Kyojurou's eyes; a lifetime in which he takes those fingers that are outstretched before him, lives and exists with Akaza for months, for years, for an eternity.

Those fingers, which have ripped apart countless humans. Have painted the canvas of Kyojurou's body in scars, inflicted wounds deeper than skin.

Kyojurou's jaw tightens.

"I suppose that's a no," Akaza sighs as Kyojurou's blade lops off the outstretched arm, the mangled limb severing with a spurt of blood.

"And it will continue to be so," Kyojurou replies. His maimed eye seems to ache under its patch.

"What a pity, when fighting you is truly a pleasure." The fist he had just cut off reattaches itself and strikes squarely against his chest, a strangled cough forcing itself from Kyojurou. Undeterred, he's responding by falling into a stance he's done dozens of dozens of times, lips forming around words.

His flames spring forth from him, casting a golden glow, illuminating the twinkle in Akaza's eyes, the curve of his smile. "The prospect that you still have not reached your peak… That you still have left to grow…" A laugh tears itself from Akaza's throat. "It gives me shivers, fills me with such excitement."

"Don't become too excited, as you will be dead before you live to see it." Akaza's eyes widen a fraction, narrowing back so quickly it may as well have been a trick of the light.

"I will, will I?" Kyojurou's grunt is punctuated by another thrust, his gaze boring into the other's.

"And I will be your slayer."

A sound leaves Akaza; a snarl, a laugh, a cry of anger—feral and incensed. His words must have done something because Akaza's attacks are no longer as languid as they had been before, but coming at increasingly quick speeds, amber eyes seemingly glowing in the night.

A punch to his gut that he is not able to avoid has Kyojurou coughing up blood, but still, he does not halt even to wipe at his mouth, pressing back at the demon with all his strength. The rush of the battle thrums under his skin, fury soothing into calm determination.

Today—today, he will rid the world of Upper Moon Three.

Akaza lurches back in the slightest as Kyojurou unleashes technique after technique: nothing but a mere flicker of surprise, a stumble of feet, but that's all he needs and Kyojurou is seizing the opening with both hands.

Their bodies collide and they're falling, falling, the shadows cloaking them and the night sky rushing before them. Limbs struggle and writhe and nails scrape, drawing blood, and yet Kyojurou clutches on, refusing to let go.

Somehow, they end up on the dirt, Akaza's head thumping against the ground painfully, drawing a groan from him. Kyojurou is on him at a moment's notice, his blade pressed to the demon's throat, legs straddling either side of Akaza's hips. The sounds of Kyojurou's ragged breathing surround them, loud in the silence of the night.

Neither of them speak. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, Kyojurou realizes with a start how warm Akaza is. He's known of the warmth of demons, but for some reason, had assumed them to be cold to the touch. But now, with their bodies pressed flush, there's no doubt to the heat pulsating off of Akaza in waves, the warmth from their points of contact sinking into Kyojurou's skin, seeping into the very core of his bones.

It's truly something to marvel at, how not even a sliver of terror graces Akaza's features even with him at Kyojurou's mercy, pinned under the Pillar's weight, a blade to the skin of his neck. No, he is the epitome of calm, sharp-edged smile unsettlingly charming.

Perhaps it is because Akaza could overpower him easily at this moment; after all, blood stains his mouth and Kyojurou's ribs ache from bearing the brunt of Akaza's attacks, the ghost of a past agony rising to his skin, exhaustion tethering him at the edges. The demon's hands are free at his sides, and there's no doubt he's capable of unleashing more attacks, unhindered by the exhaustion humans face.

So why does he not tear Kyojurou from him and finish him once and for all? Remove the threat of death from his neck? Swallow him whole?

Those very hands settle onto his thighs and it is only because of years of experience that Kyojurou does not jolt, even as his knuckles whiten from the strength he clutches his blade with. Akaza smirks up at him, fingers on Kyojurou's thighs tightening, and for a moment, the thundering of his heart drowns out their surroundings, whitens it into nothing.

"I could kill you at this very moment," Kyojurou says, and it feels as if his fingers will go numb from how tightly he holds the weapon. "Sever your head from your shoulders, remove you from this world. You would be nothing but dust."

The threats in his words are clear as day and yet, Akaza makes no move to get away.

He presses even closer, craning his neck up so the blade digs into the skin of his neck. Blood beads at the cut, spilling down his neck like red wine. Against his consciousness, Kyojurou's eye follows the path as it becomes one with the dirt, soaking the ground in red.

Akaza's wicked smirk widens and goosebumps pepper down the lengths of Kyojurou's arms.

"You could," he agrees. "But will you?"

Of course, he will. After all, Kyojurou is a Demon Slayer, but more importantly, a human. With him, he carries the regrets and the resentments of the countless people preyed on by the damned demons, carries the burden of helping them pass on.

So-

So, why does he hesitate?

Yes, Kyojurou should say, press down his blade. Finish this and rid the world of a menace. It is at the tip of his tongue, but yet-

But yet-

It doesn't come, and the momentary hesitance is all Akaza needs.

Just as quickly as Kyojurou had tackled him to the ground, he's lunging up. In the blink of an eye, Kyojurou's fingers lose their grip on his hilt and now, he's the one sent crashing against the dirt, his blade skidding against dirt and wedging itself into a tree.

Blue-tinged fingers encircle around his wrists and press them to the sides of his head, deceivingly gentle in contrast to the strong legs clamping down around his. Fractured sclera like that of broken stained glass glint down at him, kanji boldly written out. He's effectively pinned under Upper Moon Three, and any attempt at movement only have Akaza's grip tightening on him.

All illusions of gentleness are betrayed as his fingers clasp around Kyojurou's wrists with such strength there's no doubt finger-shaped bruises will be left in their place.

"You've grown soft, Kyojurou," Akaza hums. The vibrations of his hum reverberate through Kyojurou and he gnashes his teeth, suppressing a shudder. "Hesitating with an Upper Moon before you? Perhaps my offer isn't too far off from being accepted."

"Never," Kyojurou growls, eyes darting past Akaza's shoulders, searching for a way out. His fingers clench and unclench from where they are held down, itching for his weapon. If the other's grip weakens in just the slightest… he can still pry himself free, make a run for his blade.

"Perhaps you've begun to care for me?"

All thoughts of escaping cease and Kyojurou's hands still, eyes snapping back to Akaza's fractured ones. He finds that he cannot speak, cannot vehemently deny it the way his mind is screaming at him too, tongue tied into knots. Akaza releases a huff of pleased laughter. "That is not a no."

His fingers loosen around Kyojurou's wrists, withdrawing. It is the perfect chance to carry out his plans and yet, he stays in place. Where the urge to kick Akaza off of him, to lunge for his blade should be, there is nothing. He remains there, under Akaza, a demon, as the other's eyes flicker down his visage, at the flecks of blood smearing his lips, the wild hair fanned out across the dirt.

A finger drenched in blue brushes against his cheek and Kyojurou finds no will to flinch away from the contact. Akaza's thumb wipes away at the streak of blood. His unblinking eyes never leave Kyojurou's flame-ringed one.

Kanji lettering stares down at him, unwavering. Upper Moon Three. A constant reminder of what, who, the other is.

The touch draws away and Kyojurou fights the yearning for it to stay, shifting their attention to the waves of thick locks. He catches a single one between his thumb and forefinger, smoothing over the gold, tracing the red tips. "Like the sunrise," Akaza murmurs, and he must be speaking of the shades of his hair. Kyojurou can only watch as the strands slip from his fingers. "The one thing that hurts me, that has the power to destroy me. And yet so beautiful, it makes me want to stay and admire it."

His eyes have returned to Kyojurou's now, amber bright like that of fireflies, and perhaps he is not speaking of color at all any longer. "Maybe it means I should stay away, no matter how much it calls me."

There is no chance to reply as Akaza's head bows lower, although Kyojurou does not think he would have been able to speak even if he had the opportunity to. Lips brush against Kyojurou's neck and this time, he is not able to resist the shiver crawling up his spine.

It is nothing more than a graze, almost as if Akaza is requesting his permission. But no, it cannot be, because demons do not care for their victims, nor their wishes.

But if he had asked, Kyojurou does not think his answer would have been a no, and the idea sends a rush of terror flooding through him.

Another brush of his lips against his skin, this time with the hint of sharp points, serves as a warning of what is to come. And still, Kyojurou does not pull away and finally, Akaza succumbs.

Teeth dig into his neck and Kyojurou crumples, the tension from his body slipping away, whatever fear had been present in him fading away with it.

The bite—strangely, it is not one of hunger, nor one to indulge. No, without a doubt, it is one to indulge.

They withdraw from his neck and a throb is left in its wake, only a dull pain under the haze that seems to have settled itself over Kyojurou. Akaza's lips are slick with blood, a tip of a tongue darting out to swipe over them. His body feels heavy as if he's drowning, walking underwater.

"Ah, there it is." Akaza's head tilts back. "The sunrise." Kyojurou's eye tears itself away from the demon, shifting upwards.

There it is indeed. Outlining the horizon in golden, reds and oranges and yellows smearing together in a masterful painting, akin to that of Kyojurou's hair, his eyes, his flames. Akaza's gaze slips back down to the Pillar trapped under him, red staining the side of his neck. Something sparks behind the usual glint of his eyes, something dark, ravenous, yearning.

Hunger.

Will Akaza swallow him whole, now that he has a taste of him? Will he gnaw at Kyojurou's flesh and bones until he is nothing more than dust? Will he even have the strength to save himself?

None of it come to pass. Akaza's hand reaches out one last time, fingers pressing against Kyojurou's cheek. As if confirming he is here, not far off in the sky with the sunrise.

And then he's gone, and the forest is still once more, every leaf and creature and kernel of dirt where it belongs, the only indication he had been there at all the pain wracking Kyojurou's body as he sits up, inhaling slow breaths.

Next time, Kyojurou tells himself as he retrieves his blade, pressing it back into its sheath. The bite at the side of his neck, flowering in purple, seems to burn. Next time, I will slay him.

Repeats the words to himself until he nearly believes himself, just as he has dozens of times before, the same stuttering to his heartbeat.

Only now, it seems to strain against his ribs in a way it has never before, the caged bird plotting its escape from the confines of his chest.