Work Text:
It was supposed to be a fun night.
It was supposed to be a fun night with friends.
Supposed to be, supposed to be.
Yet here he was.
Was he dying? He was only fourteen! No, not dying, despite the invisible pressure that squeezed mercilessly at his lungs, Muichirou Tokitou was not dying. He knew that, but it didn't help. Run someone’s dying you need to help them why aren't you moving there’s blood everywhere what’s happening. This was bad, he couldn't breathe, couldn't see through the unshed tears that clogged foggy eyes, gaze far away and fear striking at each separate nerve. He was trapped, suffocating, drowning in his own racing thoughts.
What am I doing this is stupid it never happened why can't I breathe I need to run something’s wrong someone’s dying I need—
His mind was frantic, matching his racing heart.
Something’s wrong something’s wrong something’s wrong—
It had all started with dinner. Not his problems, but their get-together. Dinner, yeah. That was it. There were seven of them, all about the same age, from two small middle schoolers to four slightly taller first years to one first year who stood much higher than the rest. Two girls and five guys, the group they had built up.
Muichirou had mixed opinions on everyone. Well, mostly good opinions. Some he definitely liked (smiled around, laughed with) more than others, but those he spent less time with were friends as well. He’d been pretty lonely up until middle school, where he met Nezuko Kamado who introduced him to his brother.
Nezuko with a stick of bamboo covering her mouth, eyelids slit. Tanjirou with a face painted entirely of rage and anguish, a sword of fire dazzling his hands.
That was all unnecessary background, not important for the rainy day it currently was. They had wanted to go to a park at first, but when the first sign of a downpour made itself apparent they decided to grab some pizza and watch a movie at the Kamado’s instead. That had been fine by him, Muichirou rather liked Tanjirou’s house. It was smaller than his own, but it felt cozy. A certain quaint aspect and the worn-down walls that gave it the sense of a real home.
A fire burned under the mantle, their only light sans the screen in the closed off living room. The curtains had been pulled half shut, but the dark clouds that coated the sun are deep enough to keep the atmosphere inside the house one very much like a true theater.
The teenagers grabbed their pizza and drinks and funnel onto the couch, fighting for the best spots. Inosuke shoved Zenitsu to the floor for the corner piece, who immediately gets a spot next to Nezuko and their wild friend. Genya sat on the other side of Inosuke, the three of them bickering over the selection of candy. Kanao squeezed next to Nezuko, who had managed to wrestle a package of gummies from Inosuke’s arms.
Tanjirou had laughed, warm and bright like sunshine. He plopped down next to Kanao, and Muichirou followed, taking the last spot by the end. And for a while it was like a normal afternoon, Inosuke shouting, Genya looking like he regretted his choice of seat, the girls just trying to eat their pizza in peace, and Muichirou’s sarcastic comments towards Zenitsu who kept screaming at everyone to shut up.
Truly a functional group.
They booted up some new horror movie that just came out that none of them had seen before, and after ten minutes of fighting everyone had managed to settle down enough to hear the screen.
About halfway through it started raining. Muichirou gave a curious glance towards the transparent material acting as walls, finding himself entranced by the flashes of lighting and sound until Zenitsu’s shout broke his concentration. Oh, he had missed a jump-scare.
His attention gradually returned to the screen.
It wasn't until fifteen minutes later that he wished he remained with the rain, letting the constant string of a storm’s light distract him from the movie’s second jumpscare.
It all happened too fast, but then his heart was racing and he was recalling events he didn't even know had happened.
Fear. Not produced by a carefully made soundtrack designed to make watchers squirm, but the collusion of real events and a room trying to kill him—
The movie flashed and yelled with the storm booming with impeccable timing, creating the illusion of fiction and reality working as one. Someone screamed as a rainbow of blood creates a perfect arc of crimson across the television in front of them, but all he can see is a hand flying from a limb and he's stuck in place, pain blossoming from a spot on his shoulder.
The room’s too small. The screen is too loud, too much blood, too many memories that don't even belong to him.
He's dizzy, breathing hard, but everyone is talking right now, no one can hear him losing control. Muichirou stands abruptly, eyes darting for the nearest escape. His body is briefly aware of the familiarity. His mind tells him otherwise. He needs to leave, they can't see him like this.
“Be right back,” he whispers, a wisp in the wind, already moving towards the hall. Only Tanjirou can hear him, maybe Zenitsu or Kanao, but it doesn't matter because he doesn't turn back around. He may be running, walking, sprinting, but he can't get out of that room fast enough, can’t escape the shouts and blood and memories and the eyes of his friends on his back. Muichirou notices his fingers are trembling by the time he reaches the bathroom, fumbling with an uncooperative doorknob, until he finally jerks it open and steps inside. His right arm reaches out to hit the light switch, the entrance slams shut a little too loud for his liking.
He sinks to the floor. He can't stand up.
It's night, he's with familiar faces in a strange place, arms gripping the hilt of a sunlight-soaked sword. The corridor endlessly stretches on, pillars supporting the sky. They move as one, armed with katanas and wits, bodies honed and ready for this one evening.
He doesn't know why he's there, it's not him, it's not him but someone with his body is running, crying, bleeding, and when the pain strikes his body he thinks it may be real.
Was he going to die?
There’s shouting, screams pulled from his own throat as another boy gets sliced in the middle before his very eyes.
He’s sitting there, hands buried in the feeling of his hair, trying not to make a sound but when he doesn't make a sound he can't exhale as harshly as he wants and now he’s hyperventilating and—
He's terrified, facing a stranger who claims they know of his blood and skills, but he steals his nerves and lunges.
Why can't he calm down?
There's blood, blood everywhere and he can't move; he's stuck to the wall no matter how much he struggles and it hurts, is something wrong with his lungs? Is he bleeding like the thick flow of crimson that coats his gaze? But when he managed to look down all he saw was the hazy outline of his turquoise sweatshirt.
He can't breathe.
The tingling in his fingers flowed up his arm and slowly faded to a blank nothingness, washing his body with an icy stillness and leaving him floating. This is even worse. He can't feel his arms, his arms, are they still clutching his bangs with the desperation of a dead man or are they gone, lost to this fear and panic that grips him with a grudge.
Something’s wrong something's wrong something’s wrong something’s wrong—
He fights to breathe, managing a shaky inhale. Too loud. Not loud enough. His lungs won't work—
“Muichirou?”
There’s a voice, distant and hazy from the scene that plays out in front of lost eyes. He's not there right now. Was someone talking to him?
Danger, his body screams, but he still can't move, too worried about losing the battle in his head. He already is, control was already gone, but the feeling of hair at his fingers is too important to risk disappearing.
Something touches his shoulder, in the same spot a sword had once jutted out from, and Muichirou’s mind spikes. Get OFF get off I need to get out I have to SAVE him someone is dying—
His arms jerk out involuntarily, colliding with something solid. They flinch back.
“O-Oh gods, I’m so sorry. Muichirou, it's me, Tanjirou. Can you hear me?”
The voice is soft with concern, splitting through the image of a war. It pulls him back, and when he blinks through the gaps of the hands that cover his face he can see the hazy face of his friend, kneeling down in front, far enough to give him room to breathe. A quick bob of the head is the only answer Tanjirou receives.
There's someone there with warm, red eyes. They’re a completely different shade than the dark crimson that stained the walls, his arms, his clothes, the floor and he needs to run again but he can't and he can't breathe again his chest and heart is moving too fast he can't get air—
“Muichirou,” the voice repeats. “Look at me. It’s Tanjirou. It's okay. You're safe.”
Safe? Then why was anxiety and fear swimming through his veins? Someone is dying, they're bleeding, fading to ash while he can't do anything but grip onto a sword like his life depends on it and yell.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps, unsure who he’s apologizing to. But someone’s life is fading because he's just sitting here. “I’m sorry, sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” they say. “Focus on my voice. You're in my house, not wherever you think you are. You're safe. Everyone is safe.”
Then why—?
Why’s everything hurt?
But it doesn't sound like he’s lying…
“Breathe with me.” The voice is back, and Muichirou can hear its own panic, fighting so desperately to put aside their own worry and stay calm. He’s still trembling, but when Tanjirou counts to five and exhales, Muichirou tries to mimic the movement, still staring at the older boy with desperate eyes that aren’t quite yet free from the past nightmare.
He doesn't know how long it takes, but eventually feeling returns to his arms and his heart no longer thunders in his ears. His chest moves with newfound consistency, and Muichirou looks up, finally seeing Tanjirou with a clear gaze.
“Tanjirou?” he whispers.
The red-head cracks a reassuring smile. “Are you alright?”
He's still a confused, trembling mess but the only thing he can do is apologize and bury his head. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Muichirou mumbles, unconsciously sliding away across the white tiled floor. His hands are shaking. “I’m sorry.”
“Don't be sorry,” Tanjirou repeats. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Just keep breathing. You're safe.”
Muichirou lifts his head slightly, meeting Tanjirou’s worried eyes with his own. “Sorry,” he muttered again, far from the sarcastic, deadpan child he is at school. He looks… his age. Younger. He doesn't like it. “This normally doesn’t happen in public.”
The first year scoots closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. Muichirou leans into the touch this time, knuckles white as he clenches them in a fist with attempts to stop the shaking. Tanjirou hums softly. “Do you need anything? I can get some water, or take you home—”
“No,” the smaller boy interrupts quickly, perhaps too quickly, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't want to get up, doesn’t think he can stand. Maybe fall asleep. He does that a lot anyways. Still, he wanted to stay here. With Tanjirou. “I’m fine. Here. Uhm, if you don't mind…”
Tanjirou gives a little laugh, tapping his free hand against his waist. “I doubt we're missing anything anyways.”
Muichirou exhales, closing his eyes.
He can still feel it, it’s still there, but the worst of it has passed. Much like the storm, the thunder has cleared to create a shower of gentle rain. It certainly hadn't been a fun night, and he was definitely more exhausted than he should be, but at least he had his friends.
He inhales.
The blood is gone from his gaze.