lily | muzan kibutsuji

10| festival

It was looming over his shoulder.

It had always loomed over his shoulder even after so many years. He didn't understand quite why, why death seemed to like him so much. He did not feel the same way.

That was why he resented death, he resented weakness, he resented illness; anything that reminded him of his lack of perfection was on his list of things he hated.

And now, he decided, he hated people as well.

They were good for nothing. They talked as if they knew it all—this wasn't the first incident of something like this. Even in his estate, he could hear the whispers of his clansmen when he walked by them, he knew what they thought about him, he had convinced himself he didn't care but deep down there was a part of him that did. He knew they saw him as unfit to be the head.

Their opinions hardly made any change though, despite his illness he had still managed to single-handedly make their clan the richest and strongest in the west area— still the whispers he heard poked at him.

Weakling. Doctor. Ill. Medicine. Sick.

The words he had heard so often from the people who were supposed to be closest to him made him grow cold...and now, now a nameless outsider had dared to add a new word to the list.

Corpse.

Kibutsuji blinked.

People were only concerned for themselves, that was fine, he would do the same from now on. The only person who would ever matter to him was him.

If there was ever a moment to pinpoint where Kibutsuji took a turn for the worse, it was here. In his mind, he crossed out all of his withstanding ideas. People's feelings? Irrelevant. People's sufferings? Irrelevant. Other people's lives? Not important.

He concluded that he hated everyone. He didn't need anyone and everyone was utterly useless. This was his last straw. A breaking point.

His newfound philosophy made him grimace in coldness as his eyes became darkened.

Despite wanting to leave the festival his quick pace slowed after a while and a strange feeling seemed to enter him. He felt rotten inside.

So what if he was sick?

It wasn't as if he had chosen it.

He stood still a moment before continuing his pace but stopped yet again soon after.

This time because he saw a person in the distance.

It was you. It was his lily.

You had attended the festival just as one of those men had said.

He stood silently, his feelings were almost done freezing over. Almost.

A part of him wanted to not care that you were here, that you were standing there so beautifully, that you looked so splendid in front of him; your hair, your skin, your smile, your blush. So what if you were here?

He was lying to himself. He recognized it at once.

He couldn't deny it. You were stunning. It was no wonder you had so many suitors.

...

Would he not care about you too? Would he rid himself of the feelings he felt for you as well?

He reminded himself of the words you had said the last time you had seen him.

'You're still perfect to me though.'

Perfect. Perfect despite his illness?

He felt conflicted.