The Hashira's demon- A Doukaza swap au story

Memory

The door slamming in between them was more like a deafening earthquake than the close of a light wooden door even though Akaza hadn't even closed it that hard. He couldn't see clearly, couldn't think clearly, couldn't hear anything other than Akaza's final whispered words slamming around in his head. "I can't love a demon, I just can't". Those words shouldn't hurt as much as they did, it was only to be expected after all that it would have happened at some point. That Akaza would realize how blind he had been to love a monster like him. But still, it hurt. Agonizingly bad. He could feel his chest tightening as his heart struggled to beat under his ribs from the panic, forgetting that his demon body had no need for a beating heart to continue to live, maybe if he ripped it out of his chest it would all be better. He would stay living after all. His heart had always been half empty anyway, growing up emotionally neglected at the temple since birth where he was barely spoken to other than for people to pray and beg at his feet for peace, and for paradise. Nobody gave a damn about his peace, or his paradise, or the wellbeing of the broken child they were pulling down with them in their hopes of escape. People would touch him, grab at his arms, or pull at his hair, or yank at his face, pulling him in all directions to try and satisfy their needs and wants, to set themselves free from their pain by staring into his rainbow eyes like his parents promised them. But they were rough, and they were frantic, and sometimes it hurt. The hands pulling at his arms and face would often have sharp nails, dragging stripes up the tender flesh of his arms until they bled scarlet onto the pillows underneath him. And yet he made no noise to make them stop. For if he made a whimper, or let even a single tear slip from those eyes of his, his parents would round on him afterwards and get angry. So very angry. They said as a voice of the gods he should not show weakness at all, nor humanlike reactions. And their wrath made the scars he received from his followers seem like pinches. At first the punishments had been only slaps across the wrist, or the occasional few days without being fed, until they began dressing him in clothing covering all the way up to his pale neck. As long as they didn't hit his face, nobody would know, and his "divine" beauty would not be ruined. And so they did.

 Parents. That wasn't the word he should use for them. Since freeing himself from the confinements of his temple he had heard many people talking about parents. Many of the other hashiras' didn't talk about their parents, but from the people who did, they were nothing like his own. Parents were supposed to care for their child, feed him every day, speak to him, and play with him, and not enforce strict rules and beatings upon him. His parents hadn't even given him a name. They reasoned that a name would bring too much humanity to him, and make people see him as less of a godly figure. Maybe that's another one of the reasons he didn't care when they died. When he got older, he wished for a name, like every other person in the world had. The books and scrolls followers had written about him had only referred to him as "divine child". So when he ran away to join the demon slayer corps, that was the only name he had. Translation: Douma.  

It had taken turning into a demon for the first shreds of warmth to fill his empty heart, as it had led to the first roommate and proper friend Douma had ever had. The easy was he could be himself around Akaza, the way they slept intertwined together in the bed at night, the way the pinkette had willingly let him drink blood from his own leg just so he wouldn't starve. He should have refused he blood when it was offered to him. He was used to starvation. He could have managed it. Maybe he would have appeared more human and less demon if he had just denied the offer. He had felt loved for the first time in his life, like he had mattered to somebody, anybody at all as a person, not a figurehead. Something he had been dreaming about since he was old enough to know that such a life existed for other people. It was his fault. He had everything he had ever wanted and he had messed it up. When he had returned, even being an uppermoon Akaza had embraced him, kissed him, welcomed him back. And then he had ruined it. He was fatigued, tired, starving. Yet it was no excuse for blurting out what he had. He was far from friends with the 12 kizuki, and even if he had been, he would gladly drop them all in a heartbeat just for Akaza to care for him again. Because without him he was all alone again, but even more alone than even before. Because before he didn't know what he was missing. Now he was all too aware of how unexplainably incredible it was to have someone care about you.

He knew he should go, give Akaza the space he needed to calm down, but the pain was too fresh in his mind to be able to move more than the few steps to the wall beside the bed. He felt the tears pooling in the corner of his eyes as he lowered himself to the ground under the windowsill, letting his head fall to the wooden floorboards without moving to grab a pillow, or even bunch his cape up under his head. He was numb, and so exhausted from the shock and raw tiredness that he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. 

All alone in the empty room, the sound of an unnecessary heartbeat grew fainter.