Chapter Text
It only took the sound of footsteps to ruin Zenitsu’s day. Everything had been just fine, peaceful even, up till then. Aoi had made him a plate of onigiri with a red bean pastry to follow. Inosuke was in his sickbed, still recovering from the Upper Six demon’s poison, so Zenitsu was able to enjoy the meal in peace, without fear of it being snatched off his plate. He could take his time, sat on the edge of the courtyard in the heart of the Butterfly Mansion, savouring his tea in the sun. It was autumn, and the air was cooling in preparation for winter, but on this one day the sun decided to gift Zenitsu with light and unseasonable warmth. A little blessing. So of course it couldn’t last.
His fingers began to shake before he even registered their approach, three sets of footsteps, light, slow and gentle. Had Zenitsu been most other people, they could’ve walked close enough to surprise him. With his sharp ears, Zenitsu had time to put down his tea and dab at the drops he’d splattered on himself in his agitation before they arrived. He turned and knelt as they entered, knowing who he’d see before they came through the doorway. Two of the Ubuyashiki daughters, both with white hair and bright ribbons, led the way. They had their uniform stare, impassive and penetrating.
Racking his brain, Zenitsu thought that meant they were Hinaki and Nichika, though he couldn’t tell you which one was which. Tanjiro would’ve known if he was awake. He was attentive enough to tell all five siblings apart.
Behind the sisters came Shinobu, the mistress of the house. She wore her usual costume: her butterfly haori and a tiny smile. She took Zenitsu in with her enormous eyes, large and dark enough to swallow him whole. Zenitsu shivered, not because he was afraid of Shinobu. She was the only hashira who didn’t scare him. Well, except for when he refused his medicine. Then she could get scary. He was hiding his trembling because the master’s daughters’ presence could only mean one thing. One thing he dreaded.
“Agatsuma-san,” the girls said in chorus. “You are required for a mission.”
A thrill of alarm went through Zenitsu, but he managed to suppress his fright to a mere whimper.
“Large numbers of people have gone missing in Osaka prefecture,” one of the girls said. Her sister took up the mission statement, picking up from her sister in their signature unsettling manner. “Demon slayers on the ground suspect the presence of multiple demons. They may have formed a nest within Osaka.”
“M-multiple demons?” Zenitsu’s memory took him back to their fight with the demon siblings in the entertainment district. The fight that felt like it would never end, and where victory was snatched out of the impossible. And before that to the spider family. It seemed like every time demons assembled, things were at their very worst.
“You must go to Osaka and reinforce the local demon slayers to help them find these demons.”
“Osaka? Go back to Osaka?” Zenitsu’s fear turned to dread instead.
“It is your hometown isn’t it, Zenitsu?” asked Shinobu.
“Yes, but I haven’t gone back there in a very long time, not since grandpa took me away.” And he hadn’t returned for good reason. He despised hunting demons, but he’d gladly face Daki again if it prevented him from going back to Osaka. Alright, maybe that wasn’t true.
“Nonetheless,” said one sister. “You will guide Tsuyuri Kanao to Osaka and aid her in hunting the demons there.”
Zenitsu’s brows rose. “I won’t be going alone?” That quelled his nerves somewhat. He didn’t feel as encouraged as if he’d been travelling with Inosuke, Tanjiro and especially his Nezuko, but there was safety in numbers. He needn’t always be looking over his shoulder.
“This will be Kanao’s first time leading a group mission,” Shinobu told him. She cupped her mouth slightly as she said it, as though she were making it a secret between the two of them. “So please help her to make this a successful mission.”
Zenitsu hesitated to make any response at all. Last time he’d seen her, Kanao, Shinobu’s tsuguko and surrogate sister, wasn’t exactly what Zenitsu called leadership material. Not that he had the makings of a general himself. He remembered that after their return from Mount Natagumo, Kanao had demonstrated her superiority over all three of them. But he also remembered that decisive decision making wasn’t her strength. It would be a step back from working alongside the sound hashira. At least she won’t be as much of a bastard as Uzui. “Yes, Kocho-sama. Uh, will we have anyone else on our mission? A hashira maybe?”
Shinobu’s smile widened a millimeter. “No hashira, Agatsuma-san. You will rendezvous with the local demon slayer forces.”
“Ubuyashiki-sama believes that a hinoto…”
“…and a tsuchinoto…”
“…shall be sufficient.” The sisters’ words wove around each other’s like a knitting needle.
“Tsuchinoto?” Zenitsu asked.
Shinobu put her hands together. “Congratulations on your promotion, Agatsuma-san.”
Zenitsu couldn’t bring himself to smile or accept her congratulations. It was getting harder to stop the trembling. Ranking up from kanoe felt almost like a joke. What was the point of seniority and increased wages if you weren’t going to be alive to spend them? “W-well, if that’s what Oyataka-sama says.”
Shinobu closed her eyes as she beamed at him. “That’s good. I’ll prepare you and Kanao for your mission.”
“We’re not taking another train, are we? L-last time we… it went very badly!”
“Time is of the essence, you’ll depart tonight,” Shinobu reminded him, her patience fading just enough to warn Zenitsu.
He gulped. Then he bowed. “How long do I have to prepare?”
“I’ll see you in two hours. You can say your goodbyes.”
“Good luck, Agatsuma,” the girls said as one. Then they bobbed a farewell and left, and Shinobu went with them.
Zenitsu was alone again. The conversation had been brief; his tea and his food hadn’t had time to cool, but Zenitsu’s appetite had vanished. In fact, his stomach hurt quite a lot. It wasn’t just his taste which had soured. Even the garden had been stripped of its charms by the news of his mission.
Zenitsu’s teeth began to chatter, and he felt tears sting his eyes. Why, why, why had he been the only one to wake up the day after the battle which tore the entertainment district apart? Why hadn’t he been locked into the coma which had held Tanjiro and Inosuke for weeks now? Wrapped in bandages and arms full of IV needles. If he’d gotten cut by the freaky sickle demon instead, they’d be on their feet instead of him. Of course, only Inosuke could survive that grievous chest wound. And there was no way that Zenitsu would have the courage, strength or skill to land the finishing blow on the real Upper Six demon.
“That’s why they should go on the mission instead of me!” cried Zenitsu. “They’re the strong ones!” He raved and shrieked for a while longer, until his throat started to hurt. Eventually Aoi came along to collect his tray and scold him for making a ruckus.
Zenitsu found himself facing the last handful of hours before he committed himself once more to his unhappy duty. At first, he was unsure what to do with himself. He, after all, wasn’t a leader. Decisions were no more his strength than the silent Kanao’s. He'd always allowed himself to be dragged around. By grandpa, by his senior Kaigaku, by Tanjiro, and even by the sound hashira.
With grandpa on his mind, he spent the first part of his remaining hours of freedom by writing grandpa a letter. He’d written him one already from his hospital bed, both legs sealed in casts. That letter had been part retirement letter, part horrified screed blaming his master for dragging him into the world of demons, part last will and testament, leaving everything to grandpa and to his Nezuko. The last part of the letter than been a lengthy section on Nezuko’s perfection, with even a poem thrown in. Ultimately the letter had been so long that it was too large for a crow to carry. It had to be sent by post instead.
He had that letter’s terse reply folded up in his portfolio with the rest of his few possessions.
This new letter began much the same way: anticipating his fast-approaching death, making requests for his funeral arrangements. He was just beginning his first diatribe on Nezuko’s dazzling pink eyes when his pen stopped.
I know that I fell short of your expectations, sensei, he wrote. He hardly knew where he was going. The thought had come upon him quite by surprise. His penmanship was stuttering and uncertain. You told me that I could be a demon slayer, and that I could be an accomplished swordsman even if I had only mastered the first form of the thunder breathing style. I’m still not half the demon slayer Kaigaku is. He’s ever my senior of course. But I think, in my last mission, I truly mastered the first form. The modification I told you about: Godspeed. It was faster than I’d ever moved before. Fast enough to tear my leg apart. I don’t think I can take the first form any further now.
He put down his pen. The words on the page glared at him, accusing. They were an admission of failure. Of his limits. No different than the whinging and the whining he’d carried on all day long whilst training under grandpa. Tripping over his feet attempting the rice spirit movement. Grandpa hadn’t accepted his excuses back then; he wouldn’t accept them now. Zenitsu carefully folded the incomplete letter and placed it in inner pocket.
Then Zenitsu made his way through the Butterfly Mansion, passing a pair of kakushi in the hallway and then Shinobu’s adorable assistants Sumi, Kiyo and Naho as they made their way out of Inosuke’s room, their arms laden with medical equipment.
Zenitsu gazed through the door’s little window before entering. He could spy the impression of Inosuke’s body under the covers, but his face was obscured by his bed’s curtains. As though his friend had already been prepared a funeral shroud.
He opened the door. Even though the wild man was dead to the world, Zenitsu made sure to enter the room quietly, closing the door behind him without a snap. It was silly. Surely he should make as much of a ruckus as he’d made outside. Didn’t he want Inosuke to wake up? But when Zenitsu came to Inosuke’s side, he knew he was wrong.
The freaky boar mask had been set aside on his side table. Bare headed, Inosuke looked dreadful. His normally pretty and feminine features were paler than ever. There were heavy blue patches under Inosuke’s eyes, and his full cheeks were unusually sunken. The shutters were closed, and the room was cooler than outside, but Inosuke’s brow still glistened with sweat.
Zenitsu’s sharp hearing could hear the suffering inside Inosuke; the fluttering heart, the groaning of his poisoned guts, like a rusted-out machine. He could even hear the stretching and twitching of Inosuke’s muscles as he shook with fever.
“Only you could survive something like this,” Zenitsu sighed. But that wasn’t true. Uzui Tengen had borne a similar dose of poison and lost a hand and then an eye and still been tough enough to fight on. “Why am I going along with freaks like you three?” The words sounded cruel, but the barb was directed against himself. How could someone like him, who didn’t remember half the fights he’d been in from passing out in the middle of them, be put in the same league as these real warriors?
Zenitsu placed a fresh damp cloth on Inosuke’s brow. It was all he was qualified to contribute to Inosuke’s treatment, but he had to do something for his friend.
When he left the room, he took a moment to look back at Inosuke’s crumpled form. The rowdy boy had never been so quiet, nor so delicate. There was something hideous about the boar head on the table. It was frequently strange or even scary; it had never been morbid before. Now though, sat by Inosuke’s side with its staring and accusing eyes, it reminded Zenitsu too much of a severed head.
He found Tanjiro’s room next. He had to go down the corridor to reach it. It was a little sad. When they’d first come to the Butterfly Mansion they’d all been roomed together in the same wing. They’d recovered together, given strength by Tanjiro’s enthusiasm. Now they were far apart, held in separate rooms. Zenitsu supposed it made sense, since there was no point keeping the two of them together when they both just lay asleep.
Tanjiro’s sleep looked more restful than Inosuke’s. He’d taken a smaller dose of poison, and his body wasn’t wracked by fever. In its own way, it was worse. Tanjiro’s slumber was deep. When Zenitsu listened to the sounds and rhythms of his body, it was like he was laying far away instead of in the same room. Tanjiro’s heartbeat was ponderous, his breathing soft. His muscles were slack and silent. His chest was completely sealed in bandages, and his head was all wrapped up to reset his broken jaw. His legs and fingers were all pinned into splints. Shinobu had confided in Aoi alone that Tanjiro’s condition was the one which troubled her the most. That he might be lost forever to his coma. Zenitsu hadn’t meant to overhear the two of them, but people had always resented him for eavesdropping. Even in his dreams, he heard everything.
“Sorry Tanjiro,” he apologised again. It was not the first time he’d asked the unconscious boy for forgiveness. “Should be me.” He revisited the might’ve-been in his mind again. The demon Gyutaro on his knees, Tanjiro’s sword pressing him into the ground. If Zenitsu had managed to free himself then, make himself enough room to put his foot on the ground. Two uses of Godspeed, first to free himself, the second to attack, to lend strength to Tanjiro’s slice. His own sword, crashing like a thunderbolt from heaven onto the demon’s neck. It would’ve been enough, right? Then the two of them could’ve lasted against Daki. The sound hashira would’ve made short work of her.
Of course, Zenitsu hadn’t known the sound hashira was still alive, and Gyutaro might’ve been able to put his own head back on. And Zenitsu couldn’t stand after the second use of Godspeed. But at least he could’ve saved Tanjiro.
The demon slayer corps needed Tanjiro a lot more than it needed him. Tanjiro was a hashira in the making. He’d slain two members of the twelve kizuki. He was the foremost user of a lost breathing style.
Zenitsu had, at best, half an upper demon’s neck to his credit, and he was the least of the thunder breath users. Yet he was on his feet. Yet he was promoted above his friends. Yet he was to embark on another mission.
There were gifts on Tanjiro’s bedside table: some untouched snacks and a vase of flowers. From his many admirers in the manor house no doubt. That was to be expected of Tanjiro though. Zenitsu drew a single flower from the vase: a yellow chrysanthemum. He poured water into a glass from a water jug, full of bubbles from its long rest by Tanjiro’s bed. He placed the flower in the water glass and took it with him.
“She’d like this,” Zenitsu told Tanjiro. “I know Inosuke’s going to get better. He’s Inosuke, he’s too empty-headed to know how hurt he should be. You… if you don’t… if you… I’ll look after them. I know I’m not good for much, but I can do that. I can do that.”
Zenitsu left Tanjiro’s room with warm cheeks and stinging eyes. To see the kindest person he knew in that state, it sapped Zenitsu. Took something vital out of him.
His last stop led him to the residential part of the manor house. Truth be told, the three of them didn’t spend much time outside of the hospital and rehabilitation houses of the manor. As soon as they were well, they were gone. He knew this room though.
He knocked on this room before entering. It was deeply unlikely, but there was a chance that she’d answer the door. But long seconds passed by with no footsteps on the floor or the turning of the handle. Once again, gently, quietly, Zenitsu slipped through the door. He made sure to open the door as narrow as possible, squeezing his way into the room whilst letting in as little light as he could. All the windows were boarded up and curtained, leaving the room in almost perfect darkness.
Blindly, Zenitsu reached for the boxes that were always within the reach of the door. He’d done this enough times when visiting with Tanjiro not to stumble once or miss the box. He struck the match and filled the room with the soft golden light of the little flame. He lit one of candles kept at hand and then made his way over to the bed.
The little box her brother carried her around in lay at the foot of her bed. The strap was still broken. No one had cared to fix it yet. There was no one to carry her, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
Nezuko lay in bed, eyes closed and looking as a sweet as an enchanted princess. Her slumber wasn’t like the boys’. She had no wounds at all and looked as though she could awaken any moment. Still, she could sleep for months at a time after sustaining harm. And from what Zenitsu gathered from the Uzui after the battle, Nezuko had done some strange things in the fight. That she’d lost control and been severely injured.
“Hello, Nezuko-chan,” Zenitsu said to her, gentle as a breeze. “Your brother’s still asleep, so you don’t have to wake up if you don’t want to. You can rest as long as you need.” He placed the water glass with the yellow chrysanthemum on Nezuko’s windowsill. “Look, someone left your brother flowers. Looks like he has an admirer. It seemed unfair that the loveliest of our little band shouldn’t have any herself.” He stroked the flower’s hundred little petals. If Nezuko were awake she might’ve been enchanted with the flower. Or she might’ve pulled it apart and thrown it in the air like confetti. Whatever she chose to do, it would’ve been the sweetest gesture possible.
“This is a chrysanthemum,” Zenitsu told her. “It represents good-health and happiness. That’s why the Festival of Happiness is also called Chrysanthemum Day and why the emperor sits on the chrysanthemum throne.” He considered the boarded-up windows and the candle, the only thing keeping his Nezuko out of perpetual darkness. “Yellow chrysanthemums represent the sun. So maybe this can be your sun for a little while, until you can walk under the real thing again.”
He stroked her dark hair once and then stood. There was a creak of floorboards. Someone waiting at the door. Someone almost as quiet as Uzui’s kunoichi wives. “Goodbye, Nezuko-chan.” Then he blew out the candle and she vanished from him.
When Zenitsu emerged from the room, squeezing through the door and closing it behind him, he found Tsuyuri Kanao waiting for him. Her eyes held their usual blankness as she surveyed him. He could read nothing from her. Not by looking at her. Not through his hearing. He couldn’t tell if she was quizzical or suspicious or anything about his visiting Nezuko.
“Good…” she began to say to him, and then turned sharply away from him, staring out a nearby window.
Zenitsu started in surprise at her apparent rudeness.
After a momentary pause, she turned back to him. “…evening, Agatsuma-san,” she finished.
Zenitsu blinked. He realised, after a moment’s confusion, that that extended pause had been taken to consider what the time was and what the appropriate greeting would be. “Good evening, Tsuyuri-san,” he replied.
She regarded him, mute.
Zenitsu fidgeted. He couldn’t hold the empty intensity of her eyes. “Uh, does Kocho-sama want us?”
“Yes.” She didn’t move.
“Shall we go then?”
“Yes.” She paused for a second and then started down the corridor. Zenitsu stared after her for a moment and then hurried after her. The soft patter of their house shoes were the only sounds that filled up the corridor as they made their way to Shinobu’s laboratory.
Zenitsu was desperate to fill the silence. “I was just giving Nezuko a flower. Tanjiro had a whole bouquet. I didn’t think he’d mind sharing.”
Kanao turned and regarded Zenitsu for a long moment. “No,” she finally said.
“No?” Zenitsu fretted. Did she think she’d done something wrong? Was she one of the demon slayers who was opposed to Nezuko?
“No,” she confirmed, and kept walking.
“No what?”
She thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think he’d mind,” she finally said.
Zenitsu sighed. Talking to his girl was exhausting. It was impossible to figure out what was in her head, and Zenitsu was relieved when they pulled up outside Shinobu’s office and she bid them enter.
They found Shinobu balanced on top of a step ladder, reaching up to retrieve a wooden crate from a high shelf. Had she been anyone but a hashira, Zenitsu might’ve fretted about a small woman carrying something in such a precarious position. But Shinobu descended the ladder with all the grace of a gymnast and with no need for hands. She deposited the box on a table laden with flasks and jars of chemical agents that Zenitsu couldn’t put a name to if you paid him.
“Are you two getting along?” Shinobu asked, taking in the two of them. Neither of them said anything, though Kanao ducked her head. Shinobu gave her tsuguko a sympathetic smile. “Did you write a list, like we discussed?”
Kanao nodded and clenched her hands together.
“Perhaps you can practise them on the train. Speaking of…” she produced an envelope from her sleeve and handed it to Zenitsu. “This contains your train tickets. You’ll catch tomorrow’s 2pm overnight train from Tokyo to Osaka, with a stop in Kyoto. It also contains a letter to the local branch of the demon slayer corps explaining your mission.”
Zenitsu’s blood turned icy. “That’s the Mugen train.”
“The Mugen train was destroyed, Agatsuma-san,” Shinobu replied. Her voice was gentle and rang with sympathy. “The line is the same, but the train will be quite different. Please don’t worry yourself.”
Zenitsu was very good at worrying himself, and he never missed a chance to practise. His thoughts were filled with the half-remembered clamour of battle, and the loss of Rengoku as the sun rose. He couldn’t just ride on the same train again. He began to shake, and his teeth chattered.
He realised that Kanao was looking at him, but her expression had subtly changed. A look of muted sympathy creased her brow.
“Don’t be afraid, Zenitsu,” Shinobu said, using his first name in her gentlest voice. “There are no demons on the train. No one has been reported to have died on the trainline in months.”
“No, the demons are just in the hometown I swore I’d never go back to.”
“It’s exactly because it is your hometown that you’ll be undertaking this mission. You know Osaka well and can guide Kanao.”
“I could write down a guide for her!” Zenitsu, bursting with sudden inspiration. He looked around for a sheet of paper.
“Kanao, have you ever been to the Kansai region?” Shinobu asked.
Kanao blinked. “No, never.”
“Have you ever been to a major city other than Tokyo?”
“No, never.”
“Do you think Agatsuma-san would be helpful to you.”
Kanao’s response was hesitant. Zenitsu knew she’d been about to say: “no, never,” purely by reflex. “Yes, I think he’d be very helpful.”
“Maybe you should ask him then?” Shinobu suggested.
She considered Shinobu’s words, then faced Zenitsu. Her glassy lavender eyes didn’t quite make contact with his. Then she gave a stiff bow and Zenitsu was so overcome with embarrassment that he quite forgot to fear for his life. “Please show me around Osaka.”
“I- Uh- Sure, of course.”
She stayed bent over in her bow for longer than was necessary. After an uncomfortable period of silence, Shinobu let her know that she could stand up straight.
“From now on, Kanao is leading your mission. I hope you’ll serve her and advise her well in your capacity as her subordinate. And that Kanao won’t be a cruel taskmaster.”
Zenitsu was surprised to see a pale blush pass over Kanao’s cheeks. She really was a mystery; he could never tell what would have an impact on her.
“Do you need to say any more goodbyes?” Shinobu asked him.
Zenitsu thought of his friends, laid out sick and unconscious, maybe even slowly dying. He wouldn’t know how long they’d stay like that. They, or Nezuko, could wake up to find him gone. Or they could never wake up at all. Zenitsu could return to find that he’d missed their funerals and a final chance to say goodbye.
“I’ve said as many goodbyes as I can say,” Zenitsu sighed. He was going to a place he thought he’d really said goodbye to. The smoke and the factories. The poverty and starvation. The dens and the gambling and the crime. The betrayals and the memories of failures. The heartbreaks. Maybe there really were no goodbyes. Maybe there were some places, some people, you could never leave. There was a motto repeated in the slums and flophouses, almost a prophecy: you'll never never leave Osaka alive. It didn't matter who was being addressed. That was the point. No one escaped. Not for long.
Leaving Osaka had meant leaving behind himself. It meant taking on the chance to try and be someone else. Someone better. There, in one of Japan’s most populated cities, was close to everyone who’d ever known Zenitsu. They alone could tell whether he’d really changed.
He was more afraid of what they'd see in him than any demon.