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When Kyojuro was a little boy, and his father had yet to lock himself in the confines of his addition, Shinjuro told him once “do not fear the night but be cautious at all cost you never know what comes for you when you close your eyes”. As a child, clumsy hands and barely shaped muscles shaking with strain, Kyojuro had taken this advice very seriously. His father had been his hero after all. And so, if you visited Rengokus’ house by night back then, you would see a little boy sitting on the engawa. His hair was fire-tipped, his eyes – bright and keen. Even when his sight was slowly growing hazy with time, eyelids drooping dangerously, the boy would try to shake himself back into awakeness.
“Father has told me that I should be cautious at night,” he would explain, rubbing his eyes with a little fist, the other hand awkwardly gripping the handle of a wooden sword.
Such a child was Rengoku Kyojuro.
And while many years had passed, many things had changed – the Rengokus’ family grew, and then the number of its members reduced once again; his mother becoming a ghost of memory, his father becoming a ghost of a man – Kyojuro still remembered that piece of wisdom Shinjuro shared with him.
Sometimes, when he was sitting by the fire and listening to the world around him, he would recall those words.
Sometimes, when his shoulders were relaxed with tiredness, and he could feel a presence in the darkness, he would bristle at their meaning too – not because he was scared of the night; if anything his cautiousness was dulled. His senses not as keen as they used to be not due to decreasing skills but rather–
“Kyojuro,” Akaza’s voice was smooth like a polished blade; if it was a sword it would surely take a shade of a quicksilver.
Kyojuro nodded, acknowledging his presence, and nudged the fire with a stick.
Yes, he was no longer cautious of the night. Instead, more and more often, he found himself waiting for the sun to set.
What would his father have said if he had seen him right now? The smile on Kyojuro’s face dropped, his eyebrows furrowed. With a corner of his eye, he watched Akaza step closer, his beaded pink bracelets reflecting the golden flames as if the fire was gathering around his ankles. Kyojuro reached down his soul, desperately searching for at least a sliver of fear or anger. But the heat inside him had long changed its shade from fury to something more tender and gentle. A blaze of emotions that one should not feel in the presence of a demon. Not to mention regarding said demon.
Akaza crossed his legs, put his elbow on his knee, and set his chin in the open palm, gazing at the slayer intently. They had no habit of greeting each other, and they never bid each other goodbye. As if their meeting was a never-ending story stretched over their entire lifetime.
Kyojuro shook his head, shoving his thoughts at the back of his mind so they wouldn’t bleed crimson across his cheeks. He could very accurately guess which epithets his father would use were he to see Kyojuro at this moment. The corner of his lips twitched as if in a nervous smile.
“But when does he not curse?” Kyojuro mumbled, mostly to himself; his own whisper lost to his ears, words burned crisp by the crackling fire.
He had assumed Akaza wouldn’t be able to hear him. But maybe demons had exceptional hearing, as Tengen did, or maybe Akaza was simply watching his lips move because he asked:
“Your father?”
A bone-numbing shiver zipped down Kyojuro’s spine; his eye widened, and suddenly his senses and attention sharpened. He had always been very watchful as to not mention his family in the presence of a demon. His own relationship with Akaza was… complicated and confusing even to himself. But one thing Kyojuro had been sure of was that he would not risk the safety of his family in the name of… whatever that was. No, he was certain. He had not spoken a word about his father so how…?
Akaza rolled his eyes, reading him like an open book. “It’s not hard to decipher whom you could be talking about.”
“Explain,” Kyojuro demanded, the urgency and heat behind his words making Akaza cock one of his eyebrows.
Kyojuro saw the temptation shine at the bottom of the demon’s eyes. He recognized that look. Akaza was considering toying with Kyojuro. His fractured pupils always grew restless then, as if the ragged lines running through his eyes started to shift. It would be mesmerizing if it wasn’t so unsettling. Kyojuro braced himself, briefly considering drawing out his sword, but then – Akaza blinked, and the provocation was gone; as if he had changed his mind, as if he had known better. Which was ridiculous, of course. As a demon Akaza wasn’t prone to making decisions based on a sense of honor and sensitivity – sometimes Kyojuro simply searched for that humanity in him, hopeful and naive. If he had seen a human in Akaza, it would be easier to excuse how he felt.
Akaza shrugged, tilting his head a little bit, the warm light cast by fire sliding up his cheekbones.
“Your face,” he said at last.
“What about it?” Sometimes Kyojuro felt like a fool, asking Akaza questions for answers that the demon spoke as if they were self-explainatory. He could not tell if the lack of understanding was to be blamed for their primal differences or for the cavities of his own mind.
“Your face always looks tense after you visit your home. Your eyes are bright but the strain pulls at your muscles. You move differently then, as if your nerves have been jagged.”
Kyojuro reverted his gaze; the stick he was holding sank into the unexistent weight of the flames.
“Perhaps your presence is responsible for my tenseness.”
Akaza snorted with both disbelief and amusement, and Kyojuro’s cheeks flushed with self-consciousness.
“Your body language is easy to read outside of a fight, Kyojuro,” he commented idly, as if it was a well-known fact; as if Kyojuro hadn’t spent years perfecting the shape of his smile and the effortless openness of his demeanor.
His head jerked, surprise blowing his pupil wide.
Akaza quickly raised his hand, covering his mouth, and chuckled. The sound spilled through his fingers, leaking into the fire between them. Kyojuro noticed that a while ago – when he laughed like that Akaza sounded very human. His heart momentarily skipped a beat, as it usually did.
“I believe not many people would share this sentiment with you,” Kyojuro coughed awkwardly before he had a chance to analyze the implications of such a statement.
The chuckle died in Akaza’s throat instantly; stopped by an unexpected gasp. He covered it up quickly. Had Kyojuro not been listening carefully, he would not have noticed.
Akaza straightened his back, his head cocking from one side to the other as his strange eyes bore holes in Kyojuro’s face.
“No,” he admitted, at last, voice a little bit lower, more secretive, “I guess not many…” Akaza added wistfully, “Ah! But not many people punched their way through your stomach either, is that not true?” It sounded like a cover-up for the outburst of the almost-fondness, but Kyojuro accepted it gratefully.
He was sure that the sound of softness on Akaza’s lips would echo in his head for weeks to come either way. There was no need to dissect it tonight too.
Kyojuro laughed, the sound a little bit forceful but good enough.
“Well, if you put it that way! One could tell that you know me from inside out,” he agreed easily. A while ago, his guts stopped twisting at the memories of his stomach being torn open. It was a good sign – he concluded. Demon slayers were not cut for a life with paralyzing fear rushing through their veins.
Akaza eyed him then, assessing the situation, before he pushed himself off the ground and swiftly leaped over the flames. Stray wisps of fire licked his feet but he seemed to pay it no mind, making Kyojuro wonder if he had even felt their heat. He had no time to ponder over that, because within seconds, Akaza was right in front of him. Falling to a crouch, one of his fists planted on the ground to help him keep his balance as he edged his body forward, invading Kyojuro’s space. His eyes were bright, the dark kanji even more pronounced against the glint of excitement.
Kyojuro knew what was about to be said before the words made it past Akaza’s sharp teeth.
“Fight me,” he demanded.
If Kyojuro wanted, he could turn the offer down. He had done it plenty of times in the past, and Akaza always respected that decision. It felt strange at first – that odd dance of asking (almost pleading) and denying (or agreeing). Kyojuro easily recalled the first time Akaza had asked. It had been months after they started talking to each other, being – what Kyojuro dared to call – friendly to each other. Akaza had been quiet that night, his eyes nervously jumping between the slayer and the night sky. Kyojuro found it strange. Such demeanor wasn’t something he was used to. Then, hours later, Akaza rose to his feet, kneeled in front of Kyojuro, and asked, hesitantly, almost bashfully – will you fight me, Kyojuro? It sent shivers down Kyojuro’s spine, but Akaza’s voice was so preciously unsure that he didn’t find it in himself to refuse.
The first fight, first after the Mugan Train incident, had been a disaster. Kyojuro’s breath quickly grew shallow, panicked. No matter how many times he tried to clear up his head, no matter how many times he told himself that they weren’t fighting for real – his lungs burned as if someone had poured molten lava down Kyojuro’s throat. His limbs turned icy with fear. His heartbeat so painful in his chest that it made him feel like he was dying. (Dying again in front of a demon who refused to kill him for good.)
These days, fighting Akaza was different. The fear subdued to the faint shimmer of adrenaline down his spine; his stomach no longer flipped at each of Akaza’s movements. It was almost relaxing; the constant push and pull between them. The points of contact where their skin touched.
It didn’t escape Kyojuro’s attention that Akaza never drew blood, and his punches rarely left bruises. Sometimes it irritated Kyojuro to no end, sometimes he was grateful for that. Out loud he acknowledged neither. Giving it a name would make it more material. It would also leave an open door to addressing many, many other topics that Kyojuro wasn’t ready to discuss.
“Kyojuro?” Akaza raised his brow.
“Ah, pardon me!” Kyojuro pushed himself off the ground. “Of course, fighting demons is what I do after all!” He announced proudly, shrugging off his haori and hanging it on a branch nearby.
For a moment, Akaza didn’t reply, watching him carefully, thoughtfully. Only once Kyojuro reached for his sword – the familiar weight grounding him – the demon jumped away, quick like a viper, agile like a cat. His lips twisted into a smile, all teeth and a promise of danger, and his eyes crinkled a bit.
From the distance, Kyojuro could barely read the kanji burned across the gold of his irises. These days it was easier and easier to overlook what the characters stood for.
The grip around the handle of Kyojuro’s sword tightened; Akaza’s smile flashed white.
Once Kyojuro agreed to a fight, Akaza never warned him when he could strike. Sometimes, he threw the first punch; sometimes, Kyojuro’s blade was quicker. Tonight, they attacked at the same time, as if neither of them could wait any second longer; as if it had been way too long since the last time their bodies clashed like that.
Quick and strong as they were, they barely made any sound as they trained. The metal edges of the swords didn’t cling against each other for there was only one blade. The bones didn’t snap because the assault wasn’t applied to harm. The only thing between Kyojuro and Akaza was the noise of crunching leaves and the pleasant rhythm of harsh yet stable breathing.
They must have fought dozens of times by now, and Kyojuro was slowly learning the patterns of Akaza’s body. The subtle twist of his wrist before he threw a punch, the barely noticeable tilt of his head as he was about to jump away, the sharp inhale when he was bracing for a blade to pierce through his body.
“Do you feel the pain or the strain of your muscles?” Kyojuro asked him once.
The question seemed to surprise Akaza, or even better – startle him. He seemed to ponder over his answer, his eyes thoughtful and oddly suspicious.
The response he gave was peculiar.
“Perhaps. But I don’t register it. Such things come in a way. Why asking?” he grinned suddenly, “Trying to pry into my secrets?”
Kyojuro should have laughed it off. He did not. “Even if you claim to not register the pain, your body betrays you a little.”
“It does not.”
That, on the other hand, made Kyojuro laugh, “But it does!” he argued with a smile. “It’s easy to miss but muscles curl beneath your skin even if you cease their flinching before it ruins your stance.”
Akaza only frowned. He looked… troubled.
“I wasn’t aware.”
Kyojuro tossed a stray lock of hair away from his face.
“Well,” his heart squeezed a little, his throat tightened around the truth, “Maybe no one has fought with you often enough to take notice of that.”
These days, Kyojuro could see the difference. He hadn’t needed to tell Akaza of the habits of his body, the demon must have recognized them on his own. His movements, even the subconscious ones, were more controlled. Where they had been impeccable before, now they were almost polished into perfection. His breath hardly ever stuttered, which made Kyojuro realize that Akaza didn’t really need oxygen. It must have been a practice from the past – a custom borrowed from his long-forgotten human life. Once Kyojuro became aware of that, he found new appreciation in causing Akaza trouble with catching his breath. It was incredibly satisfying, felt as if he was forcefully dragging humanity out of him.
A fist missed Kyojuro’s face by millimeters. His mind flinched but his body was quicker, or maybe – better trained. Swiftly, Kyojuro twisted his blade, aiming to sink its tip between Akaza’s ribs. He didn’t consider himself a cruel man but he couldn’t deny that there was satisfaction in being capable of striking so precisely that his sword would tear through the soft tissue of a muscle, instead of drilling into a hard bone.
But if Kyojuro’s strikes were fast and accurate, then Akaza was thunder-quick and ruthless, and his defense carried a complete disregard for his own body. Before Kyojuro’s blade reached his ribs, Akaza’s arm firmly collided with the sword, the sharp edge biting into the bare flesh, slicing the skin as if it was a piece of paper. The impact was enough for the weapon to waver in Kyojuro’s hold, and it was all Akaza needed to regain an upper hand. Quick, nimble, and strong, the demon changed his position, dropping into a crouch and knocking the slayer off his feet. A harsh exhale rushed down Kyojuro’s tongue as his back met the hard ground. Despite knowing better, he squeezed his eye tight. Bracing for the hit.
Perhaps that’s why, by self-robbing himself of one of his senses, his body almost screamed with consciousness when Akaza’s fingers wrapped around his wrists, holding it tight until Kyojuro let go of his blade. Even as his fingers went loose around the handle, the grip didn’t lessen. The weight of Akaza’s fingers seeping heat into Kyojuro’s veins.
He could sense the demon examining him, deliberating whether he wanted to thrust the blade back into Kyojuro’s hand and continue their dance, or whether it was time to stop. A silent question that he usually answered on his own.
“Keep your eye open, Kyojuro,” he rasped at last, sounding almost displeased. His fingers let go of Kyojuro’s wrist, “You never know what’s lurking in the night,” he added, before getting up, leaving Kyojuro sprawled across the moisture of the understory.
“You never know what comes for you when you close your eyes,” his father had told him once.
“You never know what’s lurking in the night,” Akaza warned him just now.
Kyojuro laughed breathlessly and, rubbing his eye open – just the same way he did when he was a child drowsy at midnight – pushed himself off the ground, the soil beneath his fingers wet and stinky with yesterday’s rain and his own sweat.
Akaza glanced at him from his spot. He was already lounging by the fire. For someone claiming to be unbothered by temperature, he always flocked to the flame. Like a moth. Or better – like a tiger that knows that he will find something to sate his appetite with if he follows the warmth light.
“You shouldn’t laugh at your own failure,” Akaza said bluntly.
Kyojuro shook his head, allowing his hair to fall loose around his face, hiding the shadows of his expression.
“I’m not laughing at my failure,” he bit his smile and reached for his abandoned haori. “Something you said reminded me of… well, of someone else.”
A shadow of annoyance passed behind Akaza’s eyes.
“Who?”
The corner of Kyojuro’s lips twisted.
“Ah,” Akaza nodded as if that gesture explained everything. “Your father.”
Kyojuro refused to either confirm or deny that, deciding to sit down and focus on the flames. If he stared into the fire for long enough, he could still recall the brilliant color of his father’s mane as he trained in the backyard of their house. Kyojuro has always felt like his own hair was less vibrant in its color; as if he didn’t rake the whole pool of genes. As if, from the very beginning, something was lacking in him. Subconsciously, his finger pinched the haori resting upon his shoulders.
“You always take it off when we fight,” Akaza pointed out suddenly, “Why?”
Kyojuro’s hand almost immediately dropped down, as if he was caught bare-handed. He cocked his head to see the other’s expression.
Akaza was looking at him with mild interest. His lips weren’t curved into a teasing smile, his eyes weren’t dark with intent. He was just… looking at Kyojuro for the sake of looking. He could be staring at the sky or following the shapes of flames that cut through the air. Instead, he chose to focus his attention solely on Kyojuro. Something about that made him a little bit warm under his collar.
“I… ah, I don’t want it to get dirty!” Kyojuro tugged at the edge of the haori. The fabric was sturdy but pleasant to the touch. It was sewed with the finest threads and strengthened with the blood of demons that it drank over generations – that was what his father had told him when he was still telling him stories about their family’s legacy.
“But you wear it when you slaughter other demons, do you not?” Akaza cocked his head curiously. His tongue always carried a little bit of violence. “And I remember you having it at the Mugan Train too.”
“It’s different.”
“How?”
How, indeed. Kyojuro gnawed at his bottom lip. His eyes darted to Akaza and back to the fire. Moments like those – he found them troublesome. When he wanted to speak but could not, too worried about how much of what he said could cost other people's lives. It terrified him that he wanted to share his secrets with the mortal enemy of his own kind.
His father would surely call him a traitor. He would also tell him that it would be better if Kyojuro never learned how to wield a blade.
His head shook once again, more strands falling to cage his face; their wildness blending with the color of flames.
“This haori carries a promise of duty that I cannot fulfill when I fight with you these days.” The words burned his tongue as he spoke them, coming out in a hush, in a whisper.
But Akaza had good hearing, he caught every single one of them; heard their weight bounce against the moist moss, and listened to them sinking into its softness. This secret would be buried here – in this clearing in the middle of nowhere. In the grand scheme of things, it was too insignificant to pass it on. It only held the meaning for the two of them, and the silence of the forest.
“Duty, hm?” Akaza hummed quietly and Kyojuro nodded.
He pleaded the gods for Akaza to stop prodding further; surely, it must have been obvious what duties Kyojuro was talking about. His responsibilities as a demon slayer were no secret after all. To kill every demon he encountered, to rid the world of the cruelty they brought upon it. How could he possibly explain, even to himself, how it was possible then that he shared the heat of the fire and the warmth of emotion with the very creature he promised to eradicate?
It was easy to close his eye and pretend that if he couldn’t see Akaza, he forgot that the other was a demon. Somewhere deep in the forest cicadas started singing. The noise slowly dulling Kyojuro’s senses.
“This duty…” Akaza said slowly, each syllable rolling down his tongue. “This… responsibility…It’s weighing on you.” When he spoke again, he sounded much closer, a familiar tension wrapping around Kyojuro’s body. Rarely did Akaza come near when they weren’t training; he kept a safe distance, as did Kyojuro. They knew the dangers of touch.
He didn’t ask a question so Kyojuro found no need to reply. His skin was buzzing pleasantly as if the cicadas were singing directly into his bloodstream. Akaza’s body was always a little bit colder than Kyojuro’s, forged from different elements, rooted in magic, instead of flesh and bone. And yet, it felt that if his hands laid over Kyojuro’s bare skin right at this moment, the slayer would be set on fire.
One of his stray locks of hair was carefully lifted over his shoulder and pulled to the back. The hair weighed nothing on its own, but the gesture itself twisted Kyojuro’s stomach into knots. Heavy was the image of Akaza’s fingers brushing his hair.
Deep down, among the memories he barely returned to, Kyojuro had a picture of his father – his uniform blotched with blood, his abandoned at the entrance of the room blade scarred with long scratches – leaning over his mother with a soft smile. His fingers still wore a shadow of crimson over his knuckles as they slipped into the silky smoothness of Ruka’s hair. Kyojuro remembered watching this scene unfold and thinking about how much his father must have loved his mother. For the same fingers that snapped a demon’s neck bare, were now cupping his mother’s cheek so tenderly, as if she was made of porcelain and feathers.
A shiver traveled down Kyojuro’s neck, slipped beneath his uniform, and ran down his spine. The gentleness of Akaza’s ghostly touch scared him more than any punch the demon had aimed at him today.
The tiny hair at his nape raised, and the next thing he knew was the shadowy feeling of Akaza’s fingers over his shoulders. Before Kyojuro straightened his back, the sensation was nothing more than a soundless echo, and his own haori – gone along with it. His hand shot to his shoulder, the corners of his lips twitching a little.
The fabric fluttered above his head, the sound reminding him of birds taking wing. He blinked his eye open. Oh, his father would skin him alive if he had seen him right now.
Akaza was grinning at him, his smile wide and proud and sharp and unapologetic. Kyojuro couldn’t help but mirror the smile and, as childish as it was, it made the demon beam at him even harder. There was mischief to his expression. The awareness of breaking the unspoken rules, sweetening the act itself.
“Thief,” Kyojuro spoke through his grin, the insult slippery on his tongue, turning almost into a term of affection.
“Maybe theft runs in my blood,” Akaza laughed teasingly, wrapping the haori tighter around his shoulders.
Or maybe, Kyojuro thought, maybe crime runs in my blood. Allowing such blasphemy, was it not the greatest crime he had ever committed? Disrespect the family’s heirloom and–
Akaza leaned over him suddenly, cutting short whatever thoughts were running through Kyojuro’s head. He was very, very close. And his eyes were very, very mesmerizing. Had Kyojuro not known better, he would have thought that enchantment was the nature of Akaza’s Blood Art. Senjuro had told him once of a traveler who visited the city nearby. This man, as his brother explained, carried a snake in a wicker basket and a flute. When he started playing, the snake slowly rose from the basket, its movements slow, as it was swaying to the rhythm of the melody, its split eyes fixed on the traveler. Right now, Kyojuro too felt like a snake, his attention pinned to the person in front of him. Fractured eyes, a wicked smile, and a gentle curve of cheeks.
“Let’s rid you of this burden for tonight, shall we?” Akaza asked quietly, the question lisping around his smile, as he took a step back.
The haori fluttered around Akaza’s form as a gentle blow of wind tugged at the fabric. For a moment, Kyojuro watched silently. The cloth didn’t fit Akaza at all. It wasn’t made for him, it wasn’t meant to be worn by his kind. Kyojuro briefly thought of his father; what would he think? No longer wearing the haori, instead of shame, all Kyojuro could feel was a profound sense of satisfaction. Just for this one night, he allowed himself to feel it – the denied taste of youthful rebellion coiling in his veins. The delight of reaching out for something he yearned for. Who cared what his father thought? He was far away right now.
Abruptly, Kyojuro burst out into laughter. And he laughed hard enough for tears to sprout in the corner of his eye. His father could not see him here, no one could; as long as Akaza and he kept this a secret no one would learn.
Kyojuro wasn’t naive. He was very well aware that the weight of his actions would catch onto him, and perhaps the burden would turn out to be too much – it would drag him down until he sank beneath the surface of the earth. Well, to hell with this.
“Just for tonight?” he echoed, looking Akaza straight in the eyes. His vision was a little blurry, as he was getting drunk with emotion. His hands were twitching. He wanted to reach out and touch Akaza, once again see how he felt beneath his fingers when his body wasn’t set taut into a battle. Feel the warmth bleed into his own skin.
Akaza blinked as if he hadn't expected such an answer. And then his smile widened even more almost until Kyojuro could see his pink gums. He looked borderline maniacal like that; truly demonic. Kyojuro felt like he had lost the ability to breathe for a second. Who would have thought? Akaza didn’t need to look human to appear beautiful.
The haori slipped off Akaza’s shoulders, falling to the ground. It would most certainly end up stained with the mud, the grass’ juice, and even the ash that was slowly starting to circle the edge of the fire that had been set earlier that night. Kyojuro paid it no mind. With voluptuous anticipation, he waited for Akaza to step closer. The beaded bracelets around his ankles clung quietly against each other, their delicate noise announcing that Akaza was nearer and nearer. It was the last warning – Kyojuro recognized as much – one last chance to back out and pretend that there was nothing… nothing worse than disastrous between them.
Akaza crunched right in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands open and right above Kyojuro’s crossed knees. Right above Kyojuro’s palms. Each of the demon’s fingers was inky blue as if he repeatedly dipped his hands in the night sky. Kyojuro thought about the way these fingers gently pushed his hair away. He thought of his father’s bloody knuckles as he leaned down to cup his mother’s cheek.
He also thought that this night, how the only thing hiding in the darkness were his own desires; and, just like a moth flocks to the flame, they flocked to Akaza. A misplaced choice that would surely leave an ugly burned mark across his heart. It had already left a red scar over his abdomen.
“So, Kyojuro,” the heat in his stomach bubbled, as Akaza spoke his name, “What do you want to do tonight that you are free?”
Kyojuro’s hands never shook. He was a trained slayer, his body was unyielding even to the feelings tormenting his soul. Each twitch of his finger against his blade could cost people's lives. Kyojuro’s hands never shook because, day by day, he carried a responsibility on his shoulders, along with his haori.
Tonight though, he was rid of that. He didn’t even try to hide the way his hands trembled as he raised them to clumsily grab Akaza’s wrists. It was an awkward position but, in his defense, Kyojuro had never held hands with anyone. Akaza didn’t seem to mind though, patiently watching as Kyojuro twisted his forearms until he could comfortably slide his thumbs into the inside of the demon’s palms. His skin was warmer there. He could make a home in the safety of this touch alone.
Kyojuro raised his gaze to meet Akaza’s.
“We should fight.”
The demon chuckled, “Haven’t we just done that?”
“Not like that,” Kyojuro could taste his heartbeat at the back of his throat.
“How then?” his teeth flashed, and he freed one of his hands to reach Kyojuro’s face. His fingers, once again, caught a strand of his hair and carefully put it behind Kyojuro’s ear. They lingered there. Blue-skinned fingers against the fire dancing in the golden hair.
Kyojuro breathed harshly through his nose, and Akaza snorted. The tips of his fingers pressed a little harder into Kyojuro’s scalp. If he only wanted to, he could easily dig through the bone and sink his claws into the softness of brain tissue. It should ring an alarm in Kyojuro’s head, instead, instinctively, he leaned closer, swallowing the lump at the back of his throat.
He wanted to ask before acting because all of his dreams started with a question and because he mouthed the shape of it into a pillow more times than it was appropriate. He wanted to ask because he thought that it would make Akaza’s breath hitch, and oh how dearly Kyojuro wanted to steal his breath in more than one way.
His cheeks colored, and his skin warmed even despite the cooling presence of Akaza’s palm against it.
“Can I kiss you?”
Akaza’s breath stuttered, and perhaps Kyojuro would celebrate if he wasn’t as nervous as he was. He hadn’t taken into account that he would be that nervous.
The pink eyelashes fluttered as if Akaza tried to blink himself into reality before his eyelids fell shut. His face twisted into an emotion that Kyojuro feared to label. If he put a name to it, it would stay with him for longer than tonight, and he couldn’t allow it to happen. He closed his hands around Akaza’s palm, and brought it closer to his heart.
“If this is what you meant by fighting, I’m afraid I stand no chance this time,” Akaza rasped at last, slowly opening his eyes, his lips slowly itching into a smile.
“You shouldn’t smile at your own failure,” Kyojuro grinned, and maybe he would even laugh if Akaza successfully didn’t steal his breath away by pressing his lips against Kyojuro’s.
After all, just like Akaza suggested earlier, maybe theft really ran in his blood.