Chapter Text
It had not been a coincidence that the core of Zenitsu’s being appeared as simple darkness to outsiders.
Dark, bleak, hollow—yes, a trespasser would see nothing but that.
But if they had possessed Zenitsu’s hearing, they would have recognized the multitude of sounds beneath the void.
But as for the sight of it? Well, they had been right about that one.
It was pitch dark.
As it had been for as long as Zenitsu could remember.
His world had always been pitch dark.
His friends recounted the events of the Mugen Train to him while both of them sat recovering in their sick beds.
Contrary to their last mission—where Zenitsu had returned with shrinking limbs—this time he was the least scathed of them.
“What? That can’t be true! How is it possible that anyone could fight in their sleep? You’re just making that up!” Zenitsu shrieked, flabbergasted. But even as his indignation flared, something Inosuke had said ticked faintly in the back of Zenitsu’s mind.
Inosuke wasn’t one to lie. Even if he did, Zenitsu would hear it with his clairaudience. Nor was Tanjiro, with his gentle nature, the type to make such a cruel joke.
Gramps must have known. That was why he had insisted on sending Zenitsu to the final selection, even as Zenitsu kicked and screeched, protested and protested.
And unbeknownst to his friends, Zenitsu understood all of this on a level they could never comprehend.
How could someone fight in their dreams?
First of all, they would be blind.
And even if they had the hearing of a deity, adapting it into instantaneous combat reflexes was ludicrous. No one could do that naturally.
Except that Zenitsu knew why he could.
He wished he didn’t.
Zenitsu felt himself drifting back to memories he wished he could forget.
No one really knew Zenitsu’s past before his time with Kuwajima. All they knew was that he had been abandoned by his parents. Zenitsu never talked about it, even though those memories were as vivid as yesterday.
“Cover his eyes. I don’t like the color.”
A cruel voice. Zenitsu no longer remembered the face, but he remembered the small, rigid child in the dark—himself—his world shrinking colder and narrower.
Zenitsu would later realize that his “father” didn’t like the color because it didn’t come from him or Zenitsu’s mother. He had known then that Zenitsu was a bastard—born outside of marriage. Zenitsu’s very existence would start as an offense to his father.
His mother ran away, of course. She had abandoned Zenitsu—the crybaby, the liability, the albatross around her neck. She was skilled and successful, never caught again. His father’s bitter humor clung to Zenitsu’s name: Agatsuma Zenitsu—my wife is good at escaping.
Zenitsu didn’t blame her for leaving him behind.
It was only logical.
He liked to imagine she was living a fine life now, far away from his father’s evil grasp. Maybe she had remarried. Would she have new babies? Sometimes, Zenitsu would allow himself to daydream about what might have been. Maybe he would’ve known what it felt like to have a real mother.
Zenitsu hated being a bastard, and growing up with that label had been unbearable. It was the reason he was always hungry, always bullied, always running. It was why he was so desperate to marry anyone—he must be bound into wedlock at least before he dies, just so he could finally escape the shadow of his own identity.
Zenitsu’s family was a notorious shinobi clan. Within that context, the blindfold wasn’t a punishment—it was a death sentence. No one expected him to survive it.
But survival was something Zenitsu stubbornly excelled at.
And soon, his father would find “value” in his existence: his hearing. His damn hearing.
It became a curse, because his father had no qualms about molding him into a tool.
Eavesdropping. Spying. Gathering secrets. Doing every piece of dirty work that required impossibly keen ears.
But above all—
Zenitsu was never allowed to remove his blindfold. No, his father made sure of that.
He trained him like he would a lap dog, a deliberate cycle designed to carve fear into his soul until, even alone, he would obey instinctively.
Shinobi children started building poison resistance at a very young age. For Zenitsu, his father would always order him to take off his blindfold first before plunging poisoned needles into his fingers, arms, and legs. Over and over again. So Zenitsu would always associate opening his eyes with pain.
After his father finished his session with Zenitsu, he would be plunged back into darkness. It was the “comfort zone” his father had reserved for him, where he wouldn’t torture him.
It never really was. The colorless shapes in the black only sharpened the voices he dreaded most—the cold tone of his father. He knelt there, his tears dropping to the floor, creating a small pool.
He tried to take off his blindfold once, just to take a peek, when he was alone. But somehow, his father found out.
He didn’t yell.
Just a hand gripping his jaw—
and ripping out his front teeth.
The pain was excruciating. The blood and the humiliation were worse. He heard his own altered voice afterward, sickeningly clear to his delicate ears, reminding him of what had been taken.
He never tested his father again, and his teeth grew back slightly crooked as a forever reminder of what had happened.
For all the hard work his father had put into him, when Zenitsu’s first ever independent mission came, he didn’t complete it.
He ran.
For all his flaws, Zenitsu could be painfully persistent. He never forgot the purpose of running.
His father assumed he had died and never sent help. Never even looked for him.
He abandoned him—but this time, Zenitsu was grateful.
Zenitsu tore off the blindfold the moment he was free, forcing himself to rely on his eyes again. The world’s colors felt deafening, overwhelming, but he would not return to darkness. Closing his eyes soothed him, yes…but choosing to see was an act of rebellion.
All his life, Zenitsu had been pushed and persuaded by others to do the things he most feared. He knew he was a coward, hated himself for it. He might be crazy for meaning it, but Zenitsu wished to be a conscious coward.
He wished to know all the beautiful things in life before he dies—the sunset, beautiful flower orchards, and his sweet Nezuko-chan. He made that promise to himself after he escaped his father.
So learning that his subconscious had been fighting for him while he was blind felt like a betrayal from himself.
“Zenitsu, are you alright?” The soft voice of Tanjiro woke him from his crumpled thoughts.
“You smell sad.” Concern colored his tone. Zenitsu had half a mind to chastise his dear friend for his big heart—had he taken a look at himself lately?
“I’m so weak, I can only fight when I’m dreaming!” Zenitsu cried out loud. “I’m so useless, Tanjiro!”
“No. Enmu hypnotized all of us. You were able to come to aid when you heard that Nezuko was in danger, and then you fought with her to defend the people on the Mugen Train. Because deep down, Zenitsu, you are a very gentle person and wish to protect others.” Tanjiro reasoned with him kindly. He had such a Tanjiro smile on his face that Zenitsu couldn’t bring himself to argue.
“Really?” Zenitsu heard himself say, a childish note of hope in his voice.
“Really,” Tanjiro nodded firmly.
Then it hit him.
“AHHHH! I missed my first fight with Nezuko-chan!”
Zenitsu fell back dramatically.
“She must have been so brave.” And so strong. Zenitsu wished he could be as brave as her.
Her unfathomable strength to hold back her natural hunger for flesh. The great love she felt for her brother—for all of them. Nezuko-chan never sang out her wonderful virtues, so it was for Zenitsu to hear every detail.