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Kokushibo’s eyes slid over the carnage, each set of them narrowing as he took in the destruction. Trees rent up from the forest floor, sections of the earth smashed into craters, shattered stones and flattened underbrush. It had been a while since he’d seen Akaza’s particular brand of annihilation so intense. 

Not since the first few decades after he had turned. 

“The hell are you doing here…?” Akaza muttered, his voice so soft that were Kokushibo not a demon, he never would have heard it. 

Kokushibo tilted his head, and drew in a slow, deep breath. “You should… report to Him… before He gets impatient.” 

Akaza huffed, the line of his shoulders tightened with tension, but he made no move to get up from his place in the center of the destruction. He sat in the depths of the largest crater, his knees pulled to his chest, and stared at the remains of the body. Blood splattered across the dirt, across Akaza. Ever so slowly, it still seeped from the body, despite that the slayer was long dead. 

A Hashira, Kokushibo reasoned. It had to be, for Akaza to react this way. If it’d been any random slayer, anyone Akaza had managed to kill in a blow or two, he would have moved on without sparing them anything more than a sneer for being so weak. 

The scent of fresh blood in the air left his nose to scrunch, but it was simple enough for him to ignore. The hunger that came with being a demon had become boring to him, just another day. Bleeding bodies did little to entice him at this point, but the scent made him realize there was more than just a dead Hashira here. His gaze flitted around the impromptu clearing, revealing several more large blood splatters, a severed arm, the crumpled corpse of another slayer, a body smashed and hidden beneath a fallen tree. 

“Akaza…” Kokushibo prodded. 

A half-hearted snarl rumbled from the other demon, but he still didn’t pry his eyes away from the corpse. 

“Was it… at least a good… fight?” Kokushibo attempted when he received no response. 

Akaza’s eyes widened, ever so slightly, before the tension finally bled from his shoulders and they slumped. “Yeah, ‘course it was. Hashira always are.” 

“Then why… are you throwing… a tantrum?” After the high he got from a good fight, Akaza tended to get insufferable. Boisterous. Confident. The last time he’d challenged Douma for his rank and lost was because he’d killed a Hashira. 

The snarl rumbled louder, but Akaza still made no move to get up. “Why are you here?” 

“Because you… have killed a Hashira… and not informed… Him,” he said. 

While Muzan did not want or appreciate being bothered any time someone killed a slayer, the death of a Hashira was something he should know, and he would likely be displeased if he was not informed of it in a timely manner. 

Akaza scoffed, but finally unwound his limbs in a smooth, fluid movement, stretching his legs out in front of him and bracing his weight on the palms of his hands behind his back. “You’re not here for Him. You would have dragged me back if that were the case. You’re here for yourself.” 

Akaza always liked to make things difficult, didn’t he? 

“Yes,” he admitted. There was no use in hiding it, because Akaza was right. If this had something to do with the hierarchy, Kokushibo would have brought him back to the Infinity Castle with little preamble, and that was if Muzan even bothered to send him at all, and didn’t just have Nakime fetch him, to cut out the middle man, as it were. 

That and… this was not the first time he had come to find Akaza of his own volition. There was little point in pretending he was not curious about the other demon, nor that that curiosity may have begun to morph into… other things. Kokushibo was not foolish, and neither was Akaza. 

So yes, there was very little point in wasting time by denying he had come here of his own volition. Wasting time, and humiliating himself with false claims of apathy they both knew were lies. 

“He said no,” Akaza muttered. 

“No…?” 

“When I asked him to become a demon, he said no. Why do they always say no?” He groaned and threw his head back, the moonlight illuminating the bands wrapped around his throat. “It was such a good fight, we could have kept fighting, I could have fought him forever, but he said no. I don’t fucking get it.” 

A frown tugged at Kokushibo’s lips, and he resisted the urge to step forward and examine the decimated remains of the Hashira. He would never understand why Akaza fixated so fiercely on the slayers he fought, why he obsessed over them and begged them to become a demon. If he wanted a challenging opponent, someone he could fight tirelessly, beyond all human limitation, the other Upper Kizuki already existed. 

Kokushibo existed. 

Akaza’s gaze finally slid towards him. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like… what?” 

“Like—” Akaza bared his teeth and shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll go speak with Him.” He shoved himself to his feet, flicked a few drops of blood from his fists, and stomped out of the crater. 

Kokushibo caught his upper arm as he passed. 

“Perhaps you should… calm down… before you speak with Him,” Kokushibo said. 

“You’re the one who wanted me to go!” he shouted. 

All six of Kokushibo’s eyes narrowed as he examined Akaza’s face. The twitch of the corner of his mouth, the slight furrow of his brows, the nearly panicked glint in his eyes… 

“What is… wrong?” he questioned as he leaned down. 

Akaza’s throat bobbed with a harsh swallow. “Are you asking as Upper Moon One, or Kokushibo?” 

“They are… the same,” he said. 

Akaza ripped himself from Kokushibo’s grip and twisted on his heel. “Then I’m fine. Nothing is wrong. I killed a Hashira. That’s a good thing.” 

Yes, it should be. But Kokushibo could not shake the feeling that there was something more at play here. Something had set Akaza off. This was not the manic glee tainted by a strange, miserable grief that normally followed Akaza in the days following a Hashira’s death at his hands. 

“Goodbye, Kokushibo.” 

The biwa thrummed, and Akaza vanished, leaving behind a destroyed patch of forest, and a Hashira’s corpse. 

Kokushibo did not spare it a glance. 

Agitation was nothing unusual when it came to Akaza. On his bad days, damn near everything tended to set him off. Douma would know; he’d been on the receiving end of it more times than he could count. 

(Or maybe Douma was just good at setting him off. Who was to say, really?) 

But still… Douma had grown used to Akaza’s agitation. He could read his agitation as simply as he could read a book. Most often, the agitation was born from boredom, or petty irritation. That was usually when he lost portions of his head or limbs. That was to say, that Douma could tell when Akaza was genuinely upset about something, or just annoyed, despite many of his mannerisms being the same. 

And right now, something… something wasn’t right with Akaza. 

Because Douma still had his hand despite the fact that he’d laid it on Upper Moon Three’s shoulder. 

It was a welcomed surprise (and one that had, admittedly, been happening a lot more often as of late), but still strange. There was a tension in his shoulder, muscle wound and taught beneath his fingers, but Akaza did not react to the touch in the least. 

“Oh, Akaza…” Douma purred as he leaned down to nose at the other demon’s temple. “What brings you to the Infinity Castle? It’s not like you to turn up out of the blue! Did you know I was here? Did you come to see me, hm?” 

The tension doubled, but Akaza still did not rip Douma’s hand off. 

Progress, indeed! 

Or a sign that something was wrong… 

“I killed a Hashira,” Akaza said. 

“Ah! Sounds like you had a fun night! That’s your favorite pastime, no?” Douma asked with a tilt of his head. 

“It was a good fight,” Akaza conceded with a curt nod, before he finally seemed to realize Douma was still touching him, and jerked away from him. 

But still! No lost limbs! Douma would take progress where he could get it. 

“Oh, I see…” Douma held a finger to his chin. “You’re upset you broke a new toy, aren’t you? You’ve got to learn to be more gentle with them if you want them to last longer than a night.” 

Akaza’s lip began to curl up, a familiar disgust twisting his expression that left Douma’s insides to flutter. Upper Moon Three was always pretty, his beauty had caught Douma’s attention far before his personality drew him in further, but something about the absolute disdain he regarded Douma with at times… Oh, it was exquisite. 

“I can make humans last for weeks. If you know how to toy with them just right, it’s easy!” he continued. “Yours rarely last more than an hour!” 

Akaza bared his teeth, but rather than a familiar anger and irritation in his eyes, there was something desperate. “Shut the fuck up!” 

Douma sighed, pressed his hand to his cheek, and shook his head. “I’m just trying to offer some advice, since you get so upset when your humans break.” 

At that point, Douma fully expected a fist to crunch through his skull. He was surprised he’d gotten this far without that. But the blow never came. 

Akaza merely stared at him for a few moments, his eyes growing wide before he turned and rushed off. 

Douma opened his mouth to call after him, but his name died in his throat. 

His body was still completely intact; he did not have to heal a single piece of himself after an interaction with Akaza. 

What the hell…? 

What was such a big deal about that Hashira? Because that had to have been what set him off. 

Akaza on edge wasn’t something Douma had ever seen before. 

He did not think he liked it. 

Oh, he’d pictured, imagined, Akaza in a lot of different ways, so many different scenarios where that cool hostility and aggression of his finally faded away, but whatever that had just been… 

No, Douma did not like it at all. 

“What… are you doing… here?” 

“Oh… I’d wager probably the same thing you are,” Douma said with a wave of his hand. “You want to find out what set him off too, don’t you? You’re easy to predict, Kokushibo!” 

Kokushibo’s lip curled in a snarl, but Douma had long grown used to Upper Moon One’s posturing. They had reached an… arrangement of sorts, when it came to Akaza. Their ranks were ignored for this. Neither one of them had more claim to him than the other. 

Not that Akaza wanted anything to do with either one of them. 

“I had Nakime send me here,” he continued. “I asked her about you, but she didn’t say much. I swear, it’s almost as difficult to pry conversation out of her as it is out of you! None of you are very chatty, don’t you get bored, being so silent all the time?” 

Kokushibo huffed out a long, slow breath and stepped further away from Douma. 

Douma followed after him with a chipper smile. “So, this Hashira, must have really been something, hm? He’s moped over a few of them from time to time, but this was different.” 

“I am… aware,” Kokushibo said. “But… there is nothing… unusual about… this one.” 

Douma delicately stepped into the largest crater that had been carved into the ground, courtesy of Akaza’s Blood Demon Art, and hummed as he approached the shattered body that lay in the center of it. Unlike most of Akaza’s victims, the body was still… mostly intact. It laid at an awkward angle, a bit too fluid. The internal damage must have been what killed him in the end, too many ruptured organs and shattered bones for a human to survive. But Kokushibo was right; there was nothing any different about this Hashira than any other Hashira Akaza had ever killed. He wasn’t even particularly attractive. 

So, no. Whatever had Akaza acting so strangely wasn’t this Hashira. It couldn’t be. 

With a hum, Douma nudged at the body with his foot, before growing bored and stepping out of the crater once more. 

“I do not… understand his… obsession with humans,” Kokushibo lamented. “Nor yours, for that… matter.” 

Douma turned his palms up. “I’m not obsessed with them. I merely think they can be entertaining from time to time. And it is not as if He keeps a lot of women around. Just Daki and Nakime, and they’re not really my type. Say, do you think there’s a reason for that? Does He just not care for female demons?” 

Kokushibo’s expression somehow managed to grow even more flat, and he did not deign to respond, instead skirting around Douma to examine the other corpses. 

“You know, we probably don’t have long before more slayers show up,” Douma said. “Those pesky crows of theirs can move rather quickly.” 

“Then we… kill them,” Kokushibo said. 

Douma threw his head back with a whine. “That’s so tedious. I doubt we’re going to find any answers here. Let’s just go bother Akaza about it! I want to see him! I’m sure we could get him to tell us what the issue is eventually.” 

Still, Kokushibo ignored him, instead using his foot to nudge at the body, as if it were nothing more than a twig in his way. “This is… just another… slayer. Doubtful… they were even… a Hashira.” 

Douma sighed. Truly, he did not understand Kokushibo. His affections for Akaza were quite obvious to anyone who paid attention, and yet, he avoided Upper Moon Three whenever he could, as if distance would get him anywhere. 

But then… Douma plastered himself all over Akaza whenever he had the chance and showered him with compliments upon compliments and that didn’t get him anywhere either. 

Akaza wanted nothing to do with either of them, so why Kokushibo didn’t spend what little time he could scrounge around Akaza, Douma didn’t understand. It wouldn’t make Akaza hate him anymore than he already did. Why not settle for it? 

He certainly had. 

Kokushibo meandered towards another body, the one smashed beneath a fallen tree. A frown tugged at his normally impassive expression, and he nudged the tree out of the way with his foot. The wood groaned and splintered as it moved, squishing portions of the body further, but exposing the head and upper torso. 

“Oh!” Douma’s eyes went wide as he rushed to Kokushibo’s side. “A woman!” 

Even though her skull had caved in, it was easy enough to tell. 

Akaza had killed a woman. 

“Akaza… does not harm… women,” Kokushibo said. 

“Well there’s a dead one right here!” Douma chirped. “And Akaza was the only demon around!” Had he finally gotten over that ridiculous little hang up? Oh, Douma hoped so. He wanted to gift Akaza with a meal, provide for him and feed him, but it was so difficult when he insisted he wanted nothing to do with the women in Douma’s cult, or any woman for that matter. 

Which Douma didn’t understand. They just tasted so much better! 

“She was… crushed,” Kokushibo said as he gingerly poked at the mush seeping from her broken skull with his foot. 

“You don’t say!” Douma draped his arm over Kokushibo’s shoulders and tugged him closer. “I thought all humans were meant to leak this much!” 

Kokushibo’s eyes slid over to glare at him. “Are you truly… this foolish?” 

Douma’s lip puffed out in a pout. “What do you mean?” 

“She was… not wounded… other than the… smashed skull…” Kokushibo gestured to her lower body, which, as he pointed out, was still perfectly intact. “Akaza does not… harm women. She was… probably caught up… in his attacks… on accident… and crushed. He… did not mean… to kill her.” 

“Oh…!” Douma could admit that made far more sense than Akaza suddenly and completely getting over his complete aversion to killing or even hurting women. And it certainly explained the panic that had sunk its claws into him. 

Kokushibo’s frown deepened, and he vanished with the thrum of a biwa, without sparing Douma so much as a goodbye. 

With a huff, Douma crossed his arms. He could stand to be a little friendlier, couldn’t he? Douma tried to be civil with him, after all! Despite the fact that Kokushibo clearly harbored feelings for Akaza as well. 

He tapped his claws against his upper arms and stared down at the decimated body. 

He had not liked seeing Akaza so on edge and unsettled. He liked it even less now that he knew what caused it. 

Akaza was meant to be fierce. Unyielding and stubborn and proud. The only time Douma didn’t want him to be that way was when he was the cause of it, when he managed to tame him and subdue him in some way. 

The fact that accidentally killing a woman could shake him so thoroughly… 

Douma’s lip curled up in the beginnings of a snarl. 

These feelings… they were strange. Well, any feelings beyond the random twinge of something he couldn’t identify were strange for Douma. But if he expected to feel anything, he’d have predicted annoyance, frustration, perhaps anger, at the fact that this was what finally made Akaza crack. 

Something as simple as killing a woman, when Douma had been trying to get to him for decades.  

But no… That wasn’t what he felt. 

The unfamiliar sensation swirling in his chest… he did not quite have a name for it, but if he had to choose one, he thought he might name it worry. 

How very strange indeed. 

Why worry about Akaza? He’d never exactly been stable before. 

(What demon was? Douma had spent a fair amount of time around his fellow Kizuki, when they allowed it, and not a single one of them was sound of mind). 

But Akaza had always been a bit… off kilter, to say the least; the accidental death of a woman surely could not make him any worse. And even if it did, what did it matter? If Akaza ended up a little crazier, he was certain he could handle it. Maybe it’d even make things a bit… easier between them, especially if Akaza could get over his hangups regarding women. 

But something about that particular train of thought only twisted the potential worry further. 

He wouldn’t be Akaza if he wasn’t so damn difficult about inane things. 

And something about the idea of Akaza being so… so… 

Hurt. 

The biwa thrummed, and Douma left the corpses behind. 

“Following random… women around… will not bring… that one back.” 

Akaza whipped around, his eyes wide and panicked. 

“In fact… you will likely… only spook them… further,” Kokushibo said. “They will sense… they are… being followed.” 

“I’m watching them to make sure no one else follows them,” Akaza insisted. “Go the fuck away.” 

Kokushibo sighed. “No one… is going to… hurt them. And… you cannot guard… every woman in Japan... Do not… let your mind… get the better… of you.” 

The obsessive desires of a demon were nothing new for Kokushibo. He’d had centuries to grow accustomed to them, and had watched obsession overtake more demons than he could count in the past. Even Muzan was not above such things, his intense focus on overcoming the sun and finding the blue spider lily to prolong his already immortal life proved that. It was why Gyutaro and Daki could not bring themselves to leave the entertainment districts behind. Gyokko’s fixation on his art, even Hantengu fell prey to his obsessive fear. 

And Akaza’s obsessions had always been some of the most intense. His obsession with growing stronger, with finding an equal… They were already fearsome desires. If he began to fixate on protecting women… 

Muzan already barely tolerated his refusal to harm them. If that refusal transformed into something more, it would not bode well for him. 

So, obviously, Kokushibo needed to take care of this, and halt Akaza’s spiral into this mindset before it sunk its claws in too deep. 

“What the hell do you know about it!?” Akaza hissed. 

“I have killed… many women,” he said. “It is… no different… from killing anyone else.” 

The panic in Akaza’s expression morphed into something genuinely angry, so apparently that had been the wrong thing to say. He lunged forward to grab the fabric of Kokushibo’s clothing, teeth bared and chest heaving. “How dare you—You don’t—You don’t understand—!” 

Kokushibo caught his wrist, and kept his hold as gentle as possible as he ran his thumb along Akaza’s cool skin. “Nakime…” he requested. 

Akaza attempted to jerk out of his hold, but he wasn’t quick enough to escape Nakime’s Blood Demon Art, especially not with Kokushibo pulling him closer. 

“Let go of me!” Akaza shouted, attempting to rip himself from Kokushibo’s grasp with enough force that the bones of his wrist broke. “Get off me!” 

“You are… not well,” Kokushibo said. 

“Shut up!” 

“I am trying… to help.” 

“I don’t need your help! And I don’t need your stupid fucking pity!” 

Kokushibo blinked, his eyes slowly going wide. “I do not… pity you.” 

Akaza finally wrenched his wrist out of Kokushibo’s hold, and glared up at him. So close, their difference in height was glaringly obvious. He knew Akaza was not necessarily a small man, but in comparison to himself… 

“Then what the fuck is this?” Akaza demanded. “How stupid do you think I am? I’m not an equal to you. I’m just—just a—” 

“A… what?” Kokushibo challenged. 

“A pretty little thing for you to have!” he snapped. 

Ah. So Akaza was aware of Kokushibo’s feelings. He was not overly surprised by that. He didn’t care enough to be subtle, even if he never acted on them, and Akaza wasn’t unintelligent. 

“I know how this works,” Akaza continued. “For you and Douma both! I’m just some pissing contest between the both of you, huh? Neither one of you take me seriously, you just want me to have a claim to me!” 

A snarl rumbled from Kokushibo’s own chest. “Do not… pretend to know… what I feel… regarding you. And Douma… has nothing… to do with… any of it.” 

“Oh, I don’t, do I?” Douma’s lilting voice chirped. 

Kokushibo resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, and Akaza’s angry snarl rumbled louder. “What… are you doing… here?” 

“Well, since we realized Akaza killed a woman, I was worried about him,” Douma lamented as he shook his head. “Given how much he cares about that, I wanted to make sure he wasn’t having some sort of breakdown!” 

Douma lost most of his jaw for that, and for once, Kokushibo did not feel inclined to scold Akaza for the lack of discipline. Because honestly… how idiotic was Douma? Sometimes, Kokushibo thought his cluelessness was an act, another layer to his facade, but other times, he was not so certain. If Akaza truly believed they were only interested in him because they viewed him as something lesser, as a pretty ornament, as something to lord over, then patronizing him, especially over what had happened with that woman and his reaction to it, was only going to make it worse. 

Not that having his lower jaw ripped from his face did anything to deter Douma. He merely pressed closer to Akaza, trapping the smaller demon in between him and Kokushibo, which only led to the tension coiling in his body doubling. 

“Akaza…” Douma purred around regenerating bone and muscle. “You know, it’s not a big deal. Women die every day! Who cares if you killed one!” 

Kokushibo’s claws flexed, and he resisted the urge to reach for the hilt of his sword. Akaza would not react well to him trying to defend him from Douma, especially not right now. 

“You’re one of the leading causes of death for women,” Akaza spit. “Your fucking opinion doesn’t count.” 

Douma shook his head. “I’m just trying to understand why it’s such a big deal for you. What’s so different between a man and a woman? Why does one’s death matter, but not the other?” 

“Because—!” Akaza sucked in a sharp breath and attempted to back away from Douma, but that only resulted in his back colliding with Kokushibo’s chest. “Because it—She—” He groaned, his hands flying up to clutch at his head and tug at his hair. “I can’t—It’s not right. She’s-She’s—” 

Douma’s teasing mask cracked, and he glanced to Kokushibo, hazy worry blooming in his rainbow eyes. 

“Akaza…” Gingerly, Kokushibo took the other demon’s wrists, and attempted to pry them away from his head, but Akaza wildly shook his head and hissed. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered. “It was an accident. I can’t think, I can’t—F-Fuck! Fuck.” 

Kokushibo gave up on Akaza’s wrists, instead sliding his hands along his arms, down his shoulders, halting them on his chest and tugging him closer, pressing them together. 

Douma frowned at that, but it quickly faded when Akaza relaxed into the touch. He leaned back into Kokushibo, and took a deep breath. 

Akaza did not remember his human life. 

Kokushibo wondered what woman might have died that turned him into this. 

Douma reached out, an attempt to take Akaza into his own embrace. “I’m taking him with me. He should not be here, where you-know-who is more likely to see.” 

Kokushibo tightened his grip with a growl. “Like hell you… are taking him… back to your… damn cult. It… will make… this worse.” 

“I can hear you both,” Akaza rasped. “I’m not fuckin’ going anywhere with you.” 

“You are… not well,” Kokushibo said. “Douma is right. He… will not react… well to seeing… you like this. You… may be… deemed unreliable.” 

“Well, wouldn’t you like that?” Akaza said as his hands finally slipped from his hair, though he still made no move to escape Kokushibo’s hold. “Maybe he’ll strip me of my rank altogether and I can just be your pet.” 

“Why are you… so certain… we are only… interested in you… in such… a way?” 

“Why else would you be?” 

Kokushibo sighed, and reluctantly let his arms fall away from Akaza. “Take him… and go.” 

Akaza leaned back, as if chasing the touch, before he seemed to catch himself and he jerked away from Kokushibo. 

Douma raised an eyebrow, but did not argue, and grabbed Akaza’s bicep. 

They disappeared with the thrum of a Nakime’s biwa. 

Akaza had never actually been to Douma’s cult. No matter how many times Upper Moon Two tried inviting him, he refused. It was miserable enough knowing what Douma did to the women he lured here, but if Akaza actually had to see them, had to interact with them, he did not think he would handle it well. 

And it would make his already insanely complicated emotions on Douma even goddamn worse. 

But right now, his mind was such a jumbled mess, he did not think to genuinely protest until it was too late. Until he was already in an unfamiliar room, surrounded by ornate luxury. Tapestries and bedding and ornaments that were individually worth more money than Akaza had ever had access to in his entire life. 

“Get me out of here,” he demanded as he wrenched himself from Douma’s hold. “Now.” 

“No.” Douma leaned down, his infuriatingly beautiful smile making a reappearance, but it could not disguise the panicked glint in his eyes. “If you keep acting like this, He will notice, and like Kokushibo said, I doubt that will be very good for you. So… you’re staying here where I can keep an eye on you and take care of you.” 

And there it was. The thing about Douma and Kokushibo that somehow made Akaza’s skin crawl and made him want to latch onto them at the same time. 

Take care of him. 

Akaza hated them. Hated them because they were stronger than him, because they saw him as something weak and fragile, something that needed to be safeguarded. From Muzan, from himself. 

But fuck, were they even wrong? One ill-placed blow with his Blood Demon Art, and one stupid slayer who had pushed another out of the way and gotten crushed in his place, and Akaza felt like he was damn near about to fall apart. 

He hadn’t meant to kill her. He hadn’t even meant to hurt her. Even if he wanted to, if he’d actually tried to land a blow on her in earnest, his body would have locked up. The only reason he had managed to kill her was because it was an accident. 

And as soon as he’d realized what he’d done… 

Fuck his head felt like it was splitting apart. He had expected the guilt, the anger, the frustration, but more feelings, vague memories resurfaced from the murky depths of his mind, before collapsing in on themselves and leaving him scrabbling for things too slippery to grasp. 

A girl… A girl… 

He was certain of that much, there was a girl. 

What girl…? 

A cool hand caressed his cheek, snapping him out of spiraling thoughts. “What’s wrong?” Douma asked as he leaned down, his voice deceptively soft, as if he actually cared and Akaza wasn’t the next pretty thing he wanted to break and devour. 

“Nothing,” he croaked. 

His mind turned over again. 

Douma hummed, stood up straight, and nudged Akaza towards the bed in the center of the room. 

He didn’t have it in him to fight it. What point was there…? Douma and Kokushibo were both more powerful than him, and Akaza did not know why they kept pretending otherwise. They could do whatever they wanted with him, and it was only a matter of time before they both gave up this game, before they finally did what they wished with him. 

Akaza… did not know if he dreaded that, or wished they would get on with it. 

He knew he should hate it. Part of him did hate it. He hated that he couldn’t be stronger, that they felt the need to take care of him, that he wanted someone to take care of him… 

But fuck, he did. Just once. Just once he wanted it all to stop and for someone else to take care of everything. 

He wished he could let that happen. 

What would be so wrong with letting Douma and Kokushibo have their way with him…? 

“Are you remembering things?” Douma asked as he shoved Akaza down amongst the blankets and cushions. 

“I wish you were as fucking stupid as you looked,” Akaza grumbled as he pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead against them. What use was there in pretending he was fine? He’d already lost it in front of both of them. 

“Ah, I am much more than a pretty face, Akaza,” Douma said with a flippant wave of his hand. “I can read you like a book.” 

Akaza tilted his head, just enough to glare at the demon out of the corner of his eye. 

“Sometimes… there are some women here I regret eating,” Douma said. 

“Do not fucking try to be relatable,” Akaza hissed. 

He expected Douma to dig his heels in, to insist they had this in common, that it wasn’t a big deal, but surprisingly, for the first time that Akaza could remember, Douma actually shut up. 

Well, he shut up for about a minute, then he said, “I just don’t understand.” 

Akaza took a deep, steadying breath. “What?” 

“I don’t understand why you care so much. How do you care so much?” 

Akaza lifted his head, his brows furrowing. Was Douma… being genuine? The infuriating lilt had vanished from his voice, the faux smile melted away as he sat next to Akaza. They did not touch, but if one leaned even the slightest bit over, they would. 

“Huh…?” Akaza breathed. 

“I don’t understand how you care so much. What goes on in your head, for it to be that way?” Douma asked. “Is it not exhausting?” 

Akaza’s frown deepened. Part of him wanted to accuse Douma of only just now actually acknowledging feelings, of conversing as an actual person might, to get under Akaza’s skin while he was so shaken. 

But why not indulge this? If Douma could be sincere even half the time, then maybe… 

“Yeah, it is.” Akaza flopped back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling, and even that had been carved and painted into an intricate design. “Where the fuck do you get the money for this shit?” 

Douma tilted his head back to glance at the ceiling. “I run a cult where people practically willingly feed themselves to me. Money is not an issue.” 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“You think humans aren’t worth anything because they’re weak,” Douma said. “Claim that they’re less than nothing. What does it matter if I take advantage of them? How are we different?” 

Akaza clenched his jaw, screwed his eyes shut, and shook his head. Too much. It was too much. He’d killed that woman, so how was he different from Douma? Different from any other man that used their power, whether physical or social, to harm women? To harm those that could not fight back? 

Gods, his head hurt. 

“Akaza…” 

“Stop talking.” 

“I don’t like seeing you this way. It’s not right.” Douma’s icy finger tips caressed Akaza’s cheek. “All because of a woman.” 

“It wasn’t her fault. It was mine.” 

It was always his fault. It was always his fault she died. 

She died. She’s dead. They poiso—

“By your own logic, she was weak, so she wasn’t worth your time,” Douma said. “She’s certainly not worth it now that she’s dead.” 

“Shut up.” 

Douma fell back into the blankets next to him, rolling so that their arms brushed and his cool breath could be felt on Akaza’s cheek. 

Akaza scooted away, ignoring the way the cool touch grounded him, seemed to freeze his swirling emotions into something manageable. 

“You hate humans for being weak, but you hate me for being strong,” Douma said. “What is it you actually want from those around you?” 

Why the fuck was Douma suddenly so interested in logic? With a frustrated groan, Akaza slung his arm over his eyes. “I don’t hate you.” 

Douma let out an excited gasp. “You don’t?” 

“You didn’t let me finish,” he grumbled. “I don’t hate you because you’re strong. I hate you because… because—” Well, he couldn’t say it was because he was obnoxious, given the situation, that wasn’t a good reason. Because he killed women? Akaza had killed a woman himself now. Why did he hate Douma? 

(He didn’t hate Douma.) 

“Aw, you don’t have an answer,” Douma said with a grin, his usual sickly tone creeping back. “I knew you would come around eventually. I’d treat you well, you know!” 

Akaza scrambled up, baring his teeth in an attempt to distract himself from his fluttering insides. “You—!” 

“So you… are well enough… to argue.” 

“Gods above!” Akaza snarled. “Kokushibo!” 

“I didn’t invite you,” Douma said with a sullen pout as he crossed his arms. “What were you even doing?” 

“Politely asking… Nakime to leave… Akaza alone, unless… He summoned him for… an urgent matter,” Kokushibo said. “She agreed.” 

“I don’t need you to do that kind of shit!” Akaza hissed. 

“I am… aware. But that… does not change… that I want to.” Kokushibo stalked forward until he loomed over Akaza. 

Their height difference was glaring enough when Akaza was on his feet, but like this… unsure and unconfident, nestled in Douma’s wealth… 

He felt so goddamn pathetic compared to Upper Moon One. 

Why would he never surpass Douma or Kokushibo? Because they didn’t break down after accidentally killing someone. 

They weren’t weak.  

And Akaza was so… so very weak. 

He was so weak that he didn’t fight when Kokushibo sat down next to him, and gathered him into his arms, nestling him against his chest. 

He was not as cold as Douma, but certainly not warm. His heartbeat thundered, slow, sluggish, like even his very bloodstream could not be bothered by anything around it. 

When Akaza made no move to escape the hold, Kokushibo squeezed him tighter, and Douma hummed in interest. 

“I hate you,” Akaza murmured. 

I hate you because you’re stronger. I hate you because you try to take care of me. I hate you because I should. 

“That is… fine,” Kokushibo rumbled. 

“Fuck…” That wasn’t the response he wanted. 

Something even colder pressed against his back, and Akaza realized Douma had leaned against him, and leaned down to nuzzle at the back of his neck. 

“I don’t hate you…” Akaza whispered. 

He wasn’t sure which one of them that statement was directed towards. Not that it really mattered. 

“She would have… died one day… regardless,” Kokushibo said. “Rather soon… most likely… with her… being a slayer… You did… nothing wrong.” 

Wrong. Akaza nearly laughed. They did things wrong all the time. They killed and ate people. Hell, sometimes Akaza even killed them for fun, when he was particularly bored and wanted a good fight. 

Right and wrong didn’t apply to beings like them, not in the same sense as humans. 

So why did he feel such relief over the words? 

Why did he take comfort in any of this when he should hate it? 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Akaza murmured. Why did killing that woman affect him so harshly? Why did he want to fall to pieces? Why was his mind such a damn mess, splintered and broken and illogical? 

“At least… you do not… have as many… things wrong… with you as Douma,” Kokushibo said. 

Akaza snorted. 

“Woah, woah, woah, was that a joke, Kokushibo?” Douma demanded as he fully draped himself across Akaza’s back to poke at Upper Moon One’s face. “I didn’t know you could do that!” 

Kokushibo caught his wrist to prevent the touch, but said nothing else.

With a petulant whine, Douma pulled his hand back, but did not shift away from Akaza, leaving him pressed between the two demons. He’d never felt so small before, but being nestled between them… 

His mind began to quiet. 

“I can hear your heart rate steadying,” Douma said as he slipped a hand beneath Akaza’s vest to cup the left side of his rib cage. “Do you like us touching you after all?” 

“Don’t push your luck,” he growled. “I’m just…” 

Just trying to figure this all out. 

Clawed fingers carded through his hair. He couldn’t tell if they belonged to Douma or Kokushibo. 

What did they actually feel for him? For so long, Akaza had assumed it was infatuation. That was what made sense. Demons and genuine feelings didn’t really go together. Certainly not demons like Kokushibo and Douma. 

But what point was there in them trying, in the most bizarre, awkward, uncomfortable way, to comfort him and calm him down from the damn mess he’d created for himself if some piece of them did not… care? 

Likely care in a fucked up way, but still care. 

Why did Akaza care that they did this? 

Well, his head was too much of a jumbled mess to consider it at the moment. If this was a whim for them, it would fade eventually, and all three of them would move on with their lives. Or at least go back to the normal routine. 

Until then… 

A low, rumbling vibration had Akaza’s eyes widening, and he opened his mouth to demand which of them had decided it was okay to purr, when he realized it came from his own chest. 

He snapped his jaw shut, but the purring did not cease. 

The hand in his hair stilled. Fabric shuffled as Douma shifted, curling more easily against his back and pressing him further against Kokushibo. 

Were they going to say anything? Kokushibo might be smart enough to keep his mouth shut, but Akaza could not imagine Douma would let something like this go. 

But the silence remained, only disturbed by the soft rumbles Akaza could not bring himself to stop. 

His eyes slipped shut. 

Demons did not need to sleep, but sometimes it was nice to pretend… Sometimes it was nice to indulge, and escape it all when his thoughts buzzed too loudly. 

Akaza slumped against Kokushibo, letting the last of the tension flow from his body, and let Douma shift them, maneuvering them into a more comfortable position. 

Consciousness slipped. 

The rumbling grew louder.