Chapter Text
Zenitsu’s four days in a hospital bed had been the final straw; his tolerance for Osaka had officially run out. It was hard to place which element had finally made his patience run dry. It might’ve been the noise of the city, which was unavoidable, even if Zenitsu kept his head buried between two pillows. The doctors hadn’t helped, first by waking him up during a period of the day when he was taking shelter from the sound of cars racing outside. Their prescription that Zenitsu get a couple of weeks of bedrest had suited him down to the ground, but they’d ruined his mood when they told him that his shoulder was completely torn by the almost-seventh form, and that it might take a year before it recovered. That was too much of a price to pay for a holiday from demon slaying.
Kanao had stepped in then and made his stay in the hospital even worse by practicing acupuncture on his legs and shoulder. His legs became a forest of needles, each of which made him yelp in fright. He didn’t like needles at the best of times, let alone when they measured in the dozens.
The visits from the local demon slayers picked up his mood a little, with their congratulations and gratitude for his defeat of the Osakan demon cabal. The news that both Mashiba and Sachiko were awake brightened his mood even more. It might’ve even saved Zenitsu from determining to leave Osaka for good, but for one last visitor.
Zenitsu had awakened as the sunset was fading into nothing and found two mismatched eyes gleaming down at him, aflame with malice. Iguro Obanai loomed over him, his pale snake uncoiling around his arm and descending the hashira’s wrist towards Zenitsu.
“You ever hear the story of the boy who cried wolf?” Iguro had asked, cocking his head at a crooked angle.
Zenitsu’s reply had been to squeak and retreat under the covers till everything under his eyes was covered. He’d never been that close to the serpent hashira, let alone exchanged words - or squeaks - with him. It had been even more terrifying than he’d imagined. Suddenly he’d been certain that he’d much rather be visited by Shinazugawa, even if he’d probably want to trade back if the wind hashira actually showed up instead.
“How about the story of the boy who called a hashira halfway across the country to fight a demon, only to kill it himself ten minutes after the hashira got off the train?” Iguro had asked. “You remember that story?”
Zenitsu’s head had shaken so fast that his neck might’ve unscrewed itself.
“Shall I tell you how it ends?” Iguro’s kris sword had hissed from its scabbard and Zenitsu had completely vanished under the covers, shaking like a jelly.
It was one thing for Zenitsu to find the courage to fight a man-eating demon, it was quite another to face those dreadful eyes without quaking in fear. Not even Inosuke would be bull-headed enough not to tremble in dread.
So the next day Zenitsu had insisted, against doctor’s orders, that it was time to get going. Kanao had agreed with the doctors, until Zenitsu had said that he was sure that Shinobu would have a cure which could fix up his wounded shoulder in a fraction of the time. She’d considered that, agreed, and then started getting ready to go.
Now they were at the train station, and a strange sorry sight they made on the platform. They were all swathed in varying amounts of bandages, and that included Iguro. Kanao looked the best of them with no more than her arm in the sling and most of her bandages worn out of sight. She carried hers and Zenitsu’s swords and the lunchboxes the Osakan slayers had given them.
Imae was remaining stoic about his busted ribs, though he started to tear up as Zenitsu and Kanao’s train pulled in. Zenitsu and Sachiko were each supporting themselves on crutches. Zenitsu had one under each arm, taking weight off his complaining legs. Sachiko was relying heavily on her left side, leaning on the crutch to keep her balance. Her neck was in a padded brace, which served not only to keep her neck straight and stop her from tearing her sutures, but also hid the massive raw scar that stretched from shoulder to chin. It wasn’t a life-threatening wound, but it meant that Sachiko would never lift anything higher than her chest again in her life, let alone wield a sword. She didn’t seem too put out by the loss. Her wounded arm rested on Mashiba’s shoulder rather than by her side. She insisted that it was most comfortable at that height, and Mashiba offered no complaint.
Mashiba herself was in the worst state of all of them. She had to be pushed in a chair and wasn’t yet strong enough to propel the wheels herself. Imae had pushed her most of the way from the hospital, but when his ribs had gotten the better of him the duty had fallen to the only able-bodied member of the bunch: Iguro Obanai. The hashira’s mouth was obscured by his bandages, so only Zenitsu could hear the terrible dark things the hashira grumbled to himself as one of the highest of demon slayers was reduced to the work of a nurse.
Mashiba’s face had won itself a couple new scars from her crash onto the rooftop, but at least the swelling had gone down, leaving behind a marsh of mottled purples and blues. Kanao’s work plucking bone fragments out of Mashiba’s orbits, which still made Zenitsu shudder, had saved the eye. The eye was still covered by a patch, but as the raw wound turned into a mere scarring, she’d be able to see out of it. The real damage though was to her spine.
Kanao said it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, which seemed obvious to Zenitsu. Mashiba was breathing after all, and that was more than Zenitsu had expected. He wasn’t sure of the mechanics, but Kanao’s spine had twisted under the strain instead of breaking. She could still wiggle her toes and had feeling throughout her whole body. However, walking was out of the question. Kanao had said that if Mashiba committed to a schedule of physical therapies she’d written up for her, in a couple of years she could walk for short distances with the help of crutches. Maybe even unaided. Running, though, was out of the question. Both Mashiba and Sachiko’s days fighting for the corps were over.
“Ya sure you don’t want to visit Kyoto on the way back?” Sachiko asked. “I hear it’s very pretty, and you’re not exactly gonna be raced to your next mission, are ya?”
“I don’t think we’re in much of a state for sightseeing,” Zenitsu told her.
“Could get a rickshaw,” Imae reminded them. “Or get the hashira to push you around.”
Zenitsu’s flesh erupted with a plague of goose pimples from the way Iguro’s eyes widened in disgust. He briefly wondered whether he could stagger out of the way of the splash zone of gore in time to keep his clothes clean.
“We can’t stick around,” Kanao said. “We have friends we want to see back at headquarters. Zenitsu and I both want to check on them.”
Zenitsu’s heart lightened. Yes, it was more than just about leaving Osaka. Though they’d only been gone a week, home beckoned to them both. Not the mansion. His small piece of luxury was… well, he certainly wasn’t going to complain, but that wasn’t what made it home.
Osaka had been his home, before he’d even known what a home was supposed to be. He’d spent much of his life in this city without lodging, without a roof. Grandpa’s little house in the mountains had been his first taste of a true home, stable and safe. Well, safeish. Embarking on his mission as a demon slayer had felt like being tossed out of his home, abandoned. It didn’t feel like that anymore.
Osaka wasn’t his home. The Butterfly Mansion was no more his home than Nezuko’s box was hers. Even grandpa’s place was no home that he could return to. His home was with the people who cared. The people who made Zenitsu want to be braver and kinder than he’d ever been before.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Can’t stay away too long.”
“You know, we’re down two good demon slayers,” Mashiba told him, uncharacteristically coy.
“Two very good demon slayers,” Sachiko added.
“Could always use someone to take over the reins.” Mashiba’s tone rang with self-deprecating mirth. There was none of the bitterness he might have expected of the words.
Zenitsu’s smile was a sombre one. “Here I thought you couldn’t wait to get rid of us.”
Mashiba shrugged and, as if just noticing it for the first time, laid her hand on top of Sachiko’s. “You got me. Chalk it up to another of my mistakes. We’d be a lot better off with the two of you here. Plus, you know,” a look of pained shame shrouded her face. “We owe you a hell of a lot. If you hadn’t found those demons, the amount of people they’d have killed… Not to mention the strength they’d gain from it.” She sighed. “The point is, my slayers need someone to take me and Sachiko’s place. We’ve found our after. Our days with the corps are over. My people need a new boss.”
“Boss, no!” cried Imae.
“You can’t ‘boss, no’ me anymore, Imae,” she told him. “I’m done. Osaka needs someone to defend it, and to lead its defenders. Agatsuma-han,” and she fixed Zenitsu with a penetrating look, “you’re the right guy for the job. You’re strong, you’re a local, and you’re not a thing like me. You ain’t gonna make the same mistakes.”
Zenitsu shifted his weight uncomfortably. “You don’t have to call me Agatsuma, anymore, you know? You can call me…”
“Zenitsu!”
Every demon slayer turned about to stare down the platform. Two women had bustled their way onto the platform and were waving at him frantically. They were two spots of brilliant colour on the austere platform. There was Mao, dressed in an aquamarine cheongsam, her dark hair glossy and full of pins. It occurred to Zenitsu that it was her one good “to be worn outside of the dirt hole of Nishinari Ward” outfit. Beside her, an unexpected pairing if ever there was one, was Rumiko. She shone like a rosy star, dressed in a voluminous pink dress. It appeared she’d recovered well from her shock at the Blue Tree from the look of her jaunty wave.
“Uh, if you’ll excuse me,” Zenitsu told the incredulous demon slayers, and then limped his way down the platform to the last two fragments of his old life.
“Are you going so soon?” Mao asked the moment he reached her. It was such an unexpected question, that the landlady should complain that he were leaving, that he instinctively wondered if he’d forgotten to pay his rent, before remembering that he wasn’t her lodger anymore.
“Soon as the train goes,” he said, dumbly.
Rumiko and Mao exchanged an implacable look with one another. The sort of look which Zenitsu assumed only baffled men but was actually part of a secret language only taught between women when they despaired over the cluelessness of men.
“Do you two know each other?” he asked, baffled.
They looked at him like he was crazy.
“Of course I know dear Rumi-chan,” said Mao. “You know that I always buy my groceries at Ishimuro’s shop. And Ishimuro-san’s wife hires Hana, Rumi-chan’s aunt, as a cleaner there. And Hana’s sister Hinata, Rumi-chan’s mother, often visits her at the shop for a chat. So when I go there I usually stop to chat to them both, because they often speak to Kimura-san, and you know I speak to Kimura-san whenever I can.”
“You only had to say yes, why did you bring all those other people into it?”
“Do you really have to go?” Rumiko asked. She pouted slightly, and Zenitsu frowned in confusion.
“Yes. Rumiko-chan, I know you probably have a lot of questions…”
“About you being a demon slayer?” she cut in. “Mao-san told me all about it. She told me that charms didn’t ward them off but that they’re gone now. That’s what that guy was, right? A demon. And you slayed him?”
Zenitsu exhaled heavily. If the existence of the demon slayers corps were actually a secret, he would’ve sunk it the moment he told Mao. It was in the gossip stream now. Soon all of Osaka would know about it. Unless Taruhi-san got caught having another affair. Then the existence of an endless battle between demons and those sworn to destroy them would be forgotten to make room for more important matters.
“Uh, yeah, that’s right. I’m part of the demon slayer corps. I hunt demons and, yeah, that demon ain’t gonna hurt you again, Rumiko-chan.”
Rumiko’s hand unconsciously crept towards her throat, remembering where Kaito had squeezed. “What you did, it was incredible.”
Mao nodded. “Burning down that horrible place. That was good of you, Zenitsu.”
“I didn’t… well, I did burn down the Blue Tree, but that’s not what I set out to do!”
“That’s not what I was talking about, Mao-san,” explained Rumiko. “I was talking about the jumping around and moving moving really fast and going wham!” ” She swung an imaginary sword. “You and your friend, the pretty one.” She waved at Kanao, who gave a smaller, more reserved wave back.
“That’s not what I was talking about either,” Mao huffed. “I’m talking about that evil steel plant.”
Zenitsu’s brows rose. He glanced back at the Osakan slayers. “Nakagima Ward Steel burned down?”
“To the ground,” she confirmed. “In the middle of the night, two nights ago. All of the water mains around it were severed. No one could put out the blaze. That wasn't you then?”
“No,” he confirmed, still staring back at Mashiba. “Not me.”
“We don’t want you to go, Zenitsu,” Rumiko implored. “If you’re a really cool demon slayer, then you have to be here.”
Really cool. Zenitsu smiled, but it was a reserved and polite smile. “The demons are gone, Rumiko, I told you.”
“But they’ll be back, won’t they.” Mao wasn’t asking a question. The certainty of it was in her voice.
“Yeah, they will.” They couldn’t know to what extent that was true. That the war would go on and on across the centuries until they destroyed Muzan. “But there are demon slayers here who will be on the case. They’ll be looking out for you.”
Rumiko took his hand. She held it gently in both of hers. They were small and delicate compared to his, as smooth as velvet. Rumiko had always been a hard worker, but one whose aim it was to one day leave hard work behind her. To be cared for and preserved like a treasure. Well, wasn’t that what so many people wanted? To be looked after and treated well? Her green flecked eyes glistened brilliantly as she gazed into his eyes.
“I called for you,” she told him, and her voice was soft and throaty, the sort that couldn’t be heard except at an intimate distance. “When that demon had me I called out for you to help me. I didn’t even know that you could do the things you do, but in that moment I knew that I needed you, Zenitsu. Then you came, like the answer to a prayer. Don’t you think that means something?”
Zenitsu stared at the pale hands holding his. She was holding his hand. Rumiko was holding his hand. Aside from holding hands with Kanao in the clinic waiting room, which had been one of the most emotionally raw moments of his life, this was one of the most intimate pieces of contact he’d ever had with a girl. This moment, this moment with Rumiko in particular, was just what he’d been after for you long. There was more to it than just the touch of her hand, or the strokeable softness of her skin. It was also the look of need in her eyes, and the trust in him that she put.
Respect. Power. Influence. Girls. Everything Aoki had taught him to value. All of it awaited him in Osaka now. Mashiba’s place as de facto leader. His criminal enemies all dead or scattered. Even the nest of demons was gone. And now his last reward. The final lure.
Zenitsu withdrew his hand. “No thank you, Rumiko-chan, Mao-san, but I can’t stay.”
Rumiko’s eyes widened in indignant shock. “What?”
“I’m not going to look back anymore,” he said. “I’m done with this town. I saved it, which is more than it deserved from me, and now I’m done.”
“B-but,” Rumiko staggered, truly astounded by what Zenitsu was saying. “You love me. You always have. That’s why you came to me when I called for you.”
“I did come, and I was the only one who could’ve. But I’m sworn to protect all mankind, not just those I love,” Zenitsu told her. “I’m sorry Rumiko, but no, I’m not staying. There’s nothing to make me stay.”
“Ah,” Mao sighed, with a air of one whose seen something no one else can. “There’s another girl.”
Rumiko gasped, appalled. Zenitsu winced, torn between how to reply. “Look,” he groaned, “even if there wasn’t, it wouldn’t change a thing.”
“So there is another,” Rumiko huffed, and Zenitsu’s patience worn a little thin for the first time. “What’s she like? Another older girl you fawn over who won’t give you the time of day? Or even speak to you?”
Well, it’s true that she won’t speak to me. “She’s very kind, and no, she’s not older. She’s a sister of a friend of mine. She’s… quiet, but she makes herself known. She can have a serious attitude when she doesn’t get her way, or when people try to mess with her family. She can be fiercely protective, but also kind, always trying to help others. She’s brave. She puts herself in danger without a thought for herself, or for what others will feel when she does get hurt. I can hear her kind heart. Generous but lost. She needs help. Her brother needs help too, and all he wants to do is save her. So I’m gonna help him do that.”
Rumiko looked put out, but she spared the snarky reply which was hiding behind her teeth. She settled for: “so you’re just going to leave us here? The Blue Tree is gone, what am I going to do?”
Zenitsu frowned. “You could leave. Plenty of opportunities out there, where nobody knows you.”
Rumiko rolled her eyes. “I already tried that, remember? The city just about dragged me back here.”
“Did the same to me,” Zenitsu told her. “I sure didn’t wanna come back here. And now I’m gonna go, and this time I really ain’t coming back.”
Kanao stared at him. She seemed to be thinking of something else to say, another reason for him not to go. Another reason for one of the few remaining familiar pieces of her life not to drift away. When all of those familiar pieces ran out, what would be left of her?
Before she could try, Zenitsu thanked Mao for her hospitality and then turned away. He hobbled back towards the rest of the group. Behind him, he could hear the new words, the new excuses and reason, die on her tongue. Words failed her as his back retreated, and he started to vanish into a strange world which she didn’t really understand.
“I made my decision,” Zenitsu announced as he returned to the group. “You’re gonna have to pass the job on to someone else. It wasn’t a mistake, Mashiba-san. You were right. I don’t belong in Osaka. I’m getting on that train.”
Mashiba’s smile was cool as snow. She shrugged, and then jerked her head at Iguro. “Nice of you to offer, but this guy just got you off the hook.”
Zenitsu realised that a sound had been playing as an underscore to the whole scene, subtle enough to blend into the background. The sound of Iguro Obanai’s teeth grinding down to the gums. He fixed Zenitsu with a look of hatred to rival Kaito’s. “Orders came down from headquarters this morning. Ubuyashiki-sama has decided that the Kansai region hasn’t received sufficient support in recent years. It needs supplemental forces, and since I’m already down here, I should make myself comfortable until another hashira can relieve me.”
A smile broke across Zenitsu’s face. It was exactly what Osaka needed, the thing that had bred the sense of rivalry between east and west: the isolation from the corps, the sense of abandonment. “That’s great!”
Iguro seized Zenitsu by the collar and got in his face. Zenitsu quailed as those strange eyes filled his vision, seeming to bear down on his very soul. For such a small man, the hashira suddenly seemed enormous. “Great?! What do you mean great?! Getting me dragged across the country is one thing, but now you’ve taken me away from the most beautiful woman in the whole world in order to babysit this city’s demon slayers. You think that’s great, huh?!”
“W-w-well, we all have our duty,” Zenitsu stammered. “I didn’t wanna come here either, but here we are.”
“Oh so it’s revenge, huh?” Iguro snarled. “You get me packed off to the middle of nowhere cause you resented being sent yourself? What kind of sick bastard are you?”
“No!”
“The minute I get a chance,” he promised, “I’ll chop you into little pieces.” Then he let the shaking Zenitsu go. Whirling about, he faced the Osakan slayers and each of them flinched a little. “None of you are gonna call me that boss bull. Your boss is the Ubuyashiki family. If you want your cute nicknames, keep calling her boss.” He pointed roughly at Mashiba. “I ain’t here to play your little pretend games. Take your boss name and keep it.” His attention turned to Imae. “I’m gonna be here as long as you Osakan slayers can’t defend yourselves. So I’m gonna whip the lot of you into shape.”
Imae didn’t look intimidated in the least. If anything, he looked like he eagerly awaited the challenge. “Works for me. You won’t find one member of the Osakan demon slayer corps who shirks. All we wanna do is protect our city,” said Imae. “We relied too much on the boss, both for guidance and for killing demons. We asked too much, on you Nao-san. With you here, Iguro-sama…”
“I ain’t your damn mother,” the hashira interrupted. He glowered at Mashiba. “What, you think cause of the state you’re in you just get off scot-free? Maybe you can’t swing a sword, but you ain’t out. Already lost Uzui, ain’t letting you bail out too. I don’t have the time or the patience to go around giving orders or consoling people when they break their leg. Forget quitting. Far as I’m concerned, you’re still in charge of this rabble.”
Mashiba looked astounded. She’d already counted herself out and was searching, in vain, for her after. What was she to be without the demon slayer corps?
“If you can’t fight for the corps, you can still serve,” said Iguro. “Consider that my first rule. No one’s just throwing in the towel. You can go back to your part time job when Muzan’s dead.”
Sachiko and Mashiba exchanged an astounded look. They didn’t know what to make of Iguro’s simultaneously cruel and supportive orders. “You want us to do what?” Sachiko asked.
“Your slayers need a couple of big sisters, that ain’t me. I don’t care for sisters and I don’t wanna be anyone’s big bro. You give them the orders, tell ‘em where to patrol, hold their hands when they’re sad that the mean hashira is pushing them so hard, and then send them back to me.”
“So much for retirement,” said Mashiba, but she didn’t look aggrieved. If anything, something that had been missing from her before was gone. A miasma of uncertainty or weariness was banished. There was a new gleam in her eyes: hopeful, and not just for the future of Osaka anymore. She twisted her head back to look at Sachiko and a smile burst across Sachiko’s face as she saw the change in Mashiba.
“What do you think?” Sachiko, unable to keep the tinkle of laughter of laughter out of her voice. “Are we retiring early? Or have got some more fight in us?”
“Retirement would get boring,” Mashiba decided.
“Wouldn’t get boring if you were there,” Sachiko told her, her voice thick with emotion. She placed a kiss on Mashiba’s cheek and squeezed her hand.
Mashiba looked like the cat which got the cream. “You got a deal, Iguro. You train my slayers as hard as you like. You’ll be out of here and running back east to your girl before you know it. Demons’ll be avoiding Osaka like the plague and you’ll have enough to deal with back in Toyko.”
Zenitsu wondered what sort of girl would be crazy enough to want to enter a relationship with the scary hashira.
The conductor gave the first blast of his whistle. It would be short minutes before the train would be off. Osaka would be behind him soon enough.
Zenitsu sighed. “Well, guess we’d better get on. It’s been…” words failed him. The enormity of the week hit him like a brick on the back of the head. The things they’d endured together in a short span of days. The things they’d seen and suffered. What could he say to summarize it all? “Thanks,” he said, lamely.
Imae strode up and Kanao and picked them up in a huge hug, one in each arm. “I’m gonna miss you two!” he cried. Zenitsu heard that creak of straining bones.
“Aren’t you hurting yourself?” he asked
“Uh-huh,” Imae confirmed, and then released them, clutching his ribs.
That kid’s ribs are never gonna get better
Sachiko bowed to both Kanao and Zenitsu, much to his embarrassment. “I feel I gotta apologize to you. I guess it worked out in the end, but I still dragged you both into this. You went through a lot because of me.”
“You needn’t apologise,” Kanao told her. “It was our duty to help you. I… uh…” she hesitated, unsure of herself and then glanced at Zenitsu.
“She means we’d do it all again,” Zenitsu translated.
“I also mean…” Kanao stammered, cutting back in and surprising Zenitsu. “I’ve… uh…” she looked at her feet. “I feel like I’ve learned a lot from you all. It’s been… educational.”
Mashiba and Sachiko exchanged a knowing look and then laughed. “Hope she didn’t pick up any bad habits from us,” Mashiba cackled. “But nobody learned a lesson like me, Tsuyuri-han. You reminded me, though it was too late, that pride should never get in a demon slayer’s way. If I’d listened to you sooner, I might still be able to wield a sword.”
Kanao gave her own bow to Mashiba. “We all have our regrets, but Zenitsu taught me not to get tangled up in those feelings. I’m grateful to you for all the help you gave. Zenitsu and I would’ve gone to that factory alone. We would not have survived without your help. All of your help.”
Zenitsu cleared his throat and gave his own bow. Shorter and not as lengthy as Kanao’s. He still had no idea what he wanted to say to Mashiba and Sachiko. “Hey uh,” he began, “could you look after those two?” He asked, gesturing down the platform to where Mao was comforting a sulking Rumiko. “They both just discovered that demons exist and are pretty alarmed about it.”
“That your mama?” asked Sachiko, gesturing with a wide jerk of her head. As much as she could with her wrapped up neck.
“That’s my landlady.”
“And the cutie next to her?”
“Former co-worker.”
Mashiba laughed. “So it’s like that, huh? Alright, we’ll look after her if you won’t.”
Zenitsu laughed weakly. “Don’t scare her. It would be better if she never heard a demon again.”
People were loading onto the train. It was time to go. Yet Zenitsu couldn’t just leave. This was his city, the one that had its claws in him. He wasn’t being dragged away this time. He was leaving under his own power. What would it mean to never come back?
One last time, he opened his perception and drank in the foul discordance of the city. The squalling of the streets and the cars and the people. Tokyo might be bigger, but it could never be as loud. This city knew the clamour like no other. It was like an orchestra’s chaotic warm-up before a concert. Could this city’s wailing and moaning also one day coalesce into something beautiful? Could the poisoned river which had caused Kaito to give up his mortal life one day be washed clean and some sense be brought to this city of grime and havoc?
“Look after the city too,” Zenitsu said. “One day, if things change and the factories don’t devour us all, it might turn into a good place to live. But I don’t think that will happen if there aren’t people there to care about it. To try and fix what’s broken.”
“Imagine that.” Sachiko wondered.
“Probably be sometime after you two beat Muzan, huh?” Mashiba said, only partly teasing. “I reckon you’ve left us the harder job of the two.”
“You’ve already changed the city,” he told them. “At least for me. I ain’t gonna think of it the same anymore. I didn’t think it would ever be somewhere it’d be hard to leave. Where there’d be anything left behind I’d miss. I… I’m glad that I could help the two of you make it through Sachiko, Mashiba-han.”
Mashiba glanced away and, to Zenitsu’s amazement, looked bashful. “Well, if you’re gonna call her by her first name, you might as well use mine.”
It was Zenitsu turn to feel bashful. There was another blast of the train’s whistle. He took a deep breath. “Goodbye, Nao. It was nice knowing you.”
“See ya, Zenitsu. And Kanao, thanks for saving Sachiko’s life. I owe you more than I can say.”
Kanao’s smile was broad and bright when Nao said her name. “I’m glad I was able to. So glad. You two… you look after each other. Make sure to do the physio I told you. You need to do it everyday to recover. But don’t do it too much. You could worsen your injuries by over…”
“You’re gonna miss your train,” interrupted Iguro. “I ain’t sticking around on this platform to hear all your sappy goodbyes again.”
Zenitsu took one hobbled step towards the train. He was another piece of the city, flaking away. Dissolving like Kaito's body. One of the many pieces of Osaka that would turn to smoke, forgotten, and by their leaving, change the city. He and the lost demon slayers and even Kaito were the sons of the city. Would he alone live to see the city change shape and become something else? Would it discard the rotten parts of itself the same way Zenitsu tried to shrug off the worst parts of him? Or would it indulge in its worst self, sinking further into a dark mire from which it could never escape?
“Goodbye,” he told them. He took hold of his voice, forcing his voice to stay stern and strong. To keep it in line. Then, maintaining that concentration, he trudged his way up the steep steps. At the top, he leaned out, facing down the platform and waved to Rumiko and Mao.
Mao was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and Zenitsu felt a sudden pang of regret from abandoning the woman who had no husband or son anymore. He’d avenged her, but he could not spare her the loneliness. Except by staying. Then there was Rumiko, still sulking at having been denied almost for the first time. It would’ve been darkly amusing if he wasn’t already melancholy. Surely there was something he could…
“Zenitsu.”
He turned back. From his vantage point up on the high steps of the train, his compatriots all looked so small. The wounded Imae, the sullen Iguro, and the forever changed Sachiko and Nao. Nonetheless, small as they were, they still looked so strong. The look of Mashiba’s face was sharp and hard of steel, dead smug and secure in herself: “get the hell out of my town, and don’t come back.”
Zenitsu gave a soft laugh. She said she’d see me onto the train. Here we are. Kanao stepped up beside him and offered a final wave to the group. Then she snapped the door shut behind them.
They found that the train was crowded, with most of the seats taken up already by those who hadn’t dawdled on the platform saying their farewells, but the people onboard the train were kind enough to make room for the injured Zenitsu. The two demon slayers were able to take their place by the window where they could wave out at the Osakan slayers as the final whistle blared out.
As the train started to chug into motion, Zenitsu felt the cracks emerge. He held on a little longer, clamping down hard as the train began to pick up speed. His hand clenched hard on nothing, as though he were trying to hold onto the city’s air. He’d finally found the things in Osaka he’d always wanted, and here he was throwing them away.
Hold on, don’t make a scene, he implored.
He felt something warm and rough touch the back of his clenched hand. Zenitsu looked up, startled, to see Kanao holding his hand. She had the inescapable eyes of a hawk. He couldn’t hide the subtle traces of his sadness, or the way he tried to wrestle those feelings into place. She’d always been able to. But to be able to act on what she saw, to reach out. That was something new.
Zenitsu thought this journey back to Osaka might’ve changed him. Made him just a little braver. It had done the same to Kanao. She was dauntless in the face of danger, but ruled by an uncertainty which kept her trapped inside a bubble. On one side of the glass, watching others from afar.
A sob burst forth from Zenitsu’s lips, because wasn’t that what the two of them holding hands meant? It was a channel for releasing feelings and letting loose the heart. Zenitsu’s tears poured forth, great heaving sobs, enough for both of them. Enough for all the lost sons of Osaka. Long and loud enough for others in the carriage to click their tongues for a boy of his age, almost a man, to cry so loudly in public. But there was bravery in brazenness, and Zenitsu had never been afraid to cry.
The city began to fall away. Osaka. Naniwa. The cradle of all his weaknesses and the home of all his strengths. That city of poison and grime, which countless people had called inescapable, where countless people had assured him he’d never leave alive, fell into the distance. As Zenitsu’s weeping came to an end with a sorry sniffle, he bid a last farewell. The orphanage and the streets. Mao’s house and Blue Tree. The places where both grandpa and Kanao had saved his life. The river where Kaito had become a demon, and then died; and where Zenitsu’s life had been reaffirmed.
They all fell away, behind the curve of the track. Shrinking into nothingness. Dissolving into air.
A small retinue granted Zenitsu and Kanao their heroes’ welcome back at the Butterfly Mansion that night. Shinobu’s adorable assistants, Sumi, Kiyo and Naho, cheered them as they limped onto the estate. The excitable girls seemed unaffected by Zenitsu and Kanao’s injuries. They danced around them, chattering about what had transpired at the mansion since they were away, or asking them about what had happened on their mission. They formed a wall of sound which was nonetheless relaxing to Zenitsu compared to the blaring trumpets of Osaka or the drumbeat of the train. The girls were like a chorus of piccolos.
Aoi came to the door whilst Zenitsu and Kanao were catching up with the girls. She bore a great basket of linens, fresh off the line.
“Welcome back,” she called to them. “Glad to see you’re alright. The mistress was worried about the two of you. Something about a telegram. Have they told you about Inosuke yet?”
Zenitsu’s crutches hit the floor before he could even think about a response. Before the words even settled in his brain. That was a drawback from being a thunder breather. He was naturally quick off the mark. He took his first step, ready to run - sprint - his way to Inosuke’s hospital room. Then he was stumbling, falling. His leg had given out under him.
A hand seized Zenitsu’s collar, stopping his fall cold. Swords clattered to the ground, forgotten. Kanao lurched him back to his feet and, without sparing a moment to confer, hoisted Zenitsu onto her back, bearing him in a piggyback using just one hand. She went running across the garden, past the little girls, past a gawping Aoi. Aoi called for Kanao to wait, but they were both gone already. Kakushi had to leap out of Kanao’s way as she pounded down the pathways like a wild horse.
They skidded to a stop outside Inosuke’s room. Tremulous, Zenitsu slid the door open for Kanao. They gazed into the room from the threshold, taking in the room, the bed, the quiet.
It was empty.
Inosuke wasn’t in his bed.
The bed was stripped and the IV flasks which had surrounded him were all gone. Even his mask was gone from his bedside table. Kanao and Zenitsu took in the scene with dreadful silence. There was a hollowness in Zenitsu’s chest. A fear he’d had the moment he'd heard he was to depart on this mission: that something would happen to Inosuke and Tanjiro whilst he was gone. He was watching the sum of the those fears come forth from the shadows. Watching, but not listening.
In the expanse of the silence that rang out between the two of them, the hesitancy to say what they feared in case it made it real, Zenitsu heard something else.
“Kanao!” he barked. “Turn about! Back down the corridor!”
She glanced around at him for less than a heartbeat, then she was back on the move, following his directions. Zenitsu told her what turnings to take, which she made at a run, before they came to a new door. The door to Inosuke’s bedroom. Through the door, Zenitsu could hear the sound he’d followed.
The sound of snoring.
Inosuke was splayed out in his bed, snoring like a bear. He was dressed pyjamas instead of a hospital gown and he was laid out in his usual messy sleeping pose instead of the neat arrangement of someone laid out in a coffin.
“He’s asleep. He's alive.” Zenitsu breathed. He slid down from Kanao’s back and, supporting his weight on the doorframe, stood at the threshold, gazing in amazement at his ridiculous friend who could survive anything.
Aoi came huffing and puffing up behind them. “Why’d you have to go running off?” she asked. “I would’ve told you.”
“What’s his condition?” Kanao asked, with the professional air of a doctor.
“His condition started to improve shortly after you left us,” Aoi told them. “His breathing and heartbeat got stronger, and eventually he started to snore.”
“That’s good, right?” Zenitsu asked, a thrill running through his heart like a chord played through strings.
“Shinobu said he’s not in as much danger as before, but he’s in the same condition as Tanjiro now.”
Zenitsu noticed Kanao frown and tried not to let the appearance of it get to him. “So Tanjiro is still asleep too? He hasn’t changed at all?”
Aoi shook her head, mournful. Then she hesitated. “Well, there is one change. His sister, Nezuko. She’s woken up.”
Zenitsu’s mouth fell open and then he leapt back onto Kanao’s back. “To Tanjiro’s room!” he cheered, practically kicking his legs with excitement. Kanao didn’t run this time, and Aoi came with them.
The window to Tanjiro’s room was open, and the curtains swayed in the cool autumn air. But cold as it was, the night air carried in the aroma of the garden too, and surely that could only benefit waking up Tanjiro. Unlike seeing Inosuke, Zenitsu didn’t feel a great pang of relief from seeing Tanjiro. He’d had no reason to think his cherished friend was in any greater danger like Inosuke. Tanjiro was still laid out in bed, eyes closed and breathing ponderously. The treats left for him by his bed had been replenished and changed, but the flowers in the bouquet Kanao had set by him were all dried up.
Perched on the edge of the bed, her hair blowing in the same night breeze, Nezuko watched over her brother. She looked around as Zenitsu keened in delight. He stumbled off Kanao’s back and this time Kanao didn’t bother to catch him as he hit the floor.
“Nezukoooo!” he called, scrabbling across the floor towards the foot of the bed.
“Oh for the love of…” groaned Aoi, rolling her eyes. “Some things never change.”
Zenitsu dragged his way onto the bed, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. “I missed you both so much!” he cried, eyes already misting up. Nezuko starred back at him with wide-eyed recognition. “When did you wake up? You’ve been looking over your brother this whole time, haven’t you? You’re too good, Nezuko-chan.”
“She woke up five nights ago,” Aoi told them. “Maybe two hours after the sunset.”
Five nights. Two hours after sunset. Five nights ago had been when he and Kanao were fighting Kaito for the final time. In that time, that battle, he’d heard that velvet voice which he’d been sure had been Nezuko’s, calling out to him, begging him to stay alive. He’d decided in the hospital afterwards that all the voices he’d heard whilst drowning had just been in his head. Kanao had confirmed that there was such a thing as auditory hallucinations. Zenitsu was a superstitious person. He believed in karma and curses and the gods and vengeful ghosts. He’d cursed all of them enough times. However, even he’d reflected that it was more likely that he’d invented the voices. After all, Rengoku and Aoki were dead. They could be spirits. But Nezuko was alive, in her own cursed immortal way. She couldn’t have reached out to him.
She woke up after the battle was over. Zenitsu couldn’t help the thought. Could it be a coincidence? That he’d heard what he thought was her voice and then she’d awakened soon after?
“Did you call out to me?” Zenitsu asked her, quietly.
Nezuko just stared back at him, betraying nothing. She reached out and stroked his fringe, playing with the short section which Kanao had cut off in the fight. Zenitsu’s worst fears had been realised.
“She hates it!” he cried to Kanao. It was just as he’d predicted when Kanao showed him his shorn hair in a mirror.
Kanao was removing the vase of dead flowers, considering the contents. Zenitsu could sense her disappointment. It was not merely that no one had replaced her flowers, it was, just like him, a disappointment that Tanjiro was still asleep at all. Whilst Zenitsu had been comforted by the fact that Nezuko was awake and looking after Tanjiro, the one thing Kanao could do to help the sleeping Tanjiro had withered.
“Hey Nezuko,” he told her. “Kanao wants to gather more flowers for Tanjiro. That’s pretty nice of her, right? Do you want to help her pick some out?”
That one got a clear response. Nezuko hopped down from the bed and scurried over to Kanao, falling in beside the flower breather. Kanao looked down in surprise at the demon. “Um, you would like to help?” The two of them stared at each other for a long time. They’d each found their match in being quiet and impassive. Eventually Kanao took Nezuko’s presence by her side as assent, and then she made her way from the room, leaving Aoi and Zenitsu with Tanjiro.
“The things I gotta tell you about, Tanjiro,” Zenitsu said. “I didn’t think I was gonna make it through without you, friend. I wished you were there so many times. That was selfish of me. You have your own fight you’re dealing with. Things feel different now. I hope you see that when you wake up.”
There was a patter of footsteps. Nezuko had bustled back into the room, growing so that her legs were longer and faster. She skipped to a stop in front of Zenitsu and held out her hand to him. There, held between her pale fingers, was the dried up remnants of a flower. Its flowers were more brown than gold now, crumpled up like discarded paper, but it was unmistakable.
A little yellow chrysanthemum, bright no longer, but persevering.
Zenitsu’s eyes, themselves more brown than gold, met Nezuko’s. In them, clouded by the confusion of her transformation, something was reaching out to him. A message, someone trying to be heard. He read her loud and clear, as though she had spoken the sentiments aloud in his head.