The Band of Demons - Modern AU

Muzan - 1 -

The day was harrowing.

Rain sloshed against the car window as a sixteen year old Muzan stared out into the foggy distance. Lights flashed brightly when they passed other cars, causing Muzan to wince at the brightness.

The rain wasn't welcoming. Usually Muzan would love it, but this was different. The fogginess just reminded him of his head at the moment, and the rain was heavy on him, despite him being safe and dry in a car.

Sat in the car alongside Muzan, his mother, was trying to braid his long hair; oddly for a sixteen year old, the bottom hairs on his head were pure white.

Muzan's father was in the front seat driving the car, looking back at the two every now and then, despite always complaining about drivers not keeping their eyes on the road.

"Are you sure it's that bad, darling?"
His mother pursued her lips, playing with the youths hair. She struggled a braid, messily slouching the strands around as if she were molding something out of clay instead of braiding it.
"Maybe it's just asthma."

Muzan's dad chipped in, now having his eyes dead ahead of him as they reached a red light.
"That's not asthma. Rin, I have asthma, I should know."
Muzan's mother went silent after her husband said those words.

Paralysis. As if feeling the limb just wasn't there anymore, like it had fallen off. Muzan had paralysis in his legs for a few days, or sometimes he would just trip and stumble, his walking weak and unstable.
His mother, who was hellbent on everything being perfect, put the paralysis off as just a muscle cramp despite her sons continuous complaints.

"Can't say that breathing isn't hard."
Muzan said, bringing a handkerchief to his mouth as he coughed.

All that could be heard for two agonizing minutes was rain hitting the windows, and Muzan's coughing. It was like those ads you saw on television, the ones that showed men or women coughing or with serious surgeries and disabilities from smoking. Muzan sounded like a smoker coughing, but more raspy.

Muzan's throat burned, raw from all the coughing he had been doing.
"But if it is asthma-"
Muzan's mother started again,
"Dammit woman, this is the third time. And stop playing with the boys hair. It's not my fault you cut yours short."

The conversation between the two adults went on for ages, sometimes silencing to listen to Muzan's coughs. They got scared when he wasn't coughing. Coughing meant he was alive.

Eventually, they had reached the hospital, now sitting in a warm waiting room, drenched in rain from when they got out of the car.
They hadn't bothered brining umbrellas, they had been in such a rush, Muzan was even still in his pyjamas.

Walking into the cramped hospital room and having to lay down on the hard cushioned bed was rather discomforting for Muzan, especially the fact that so many people were around him.

This wasn't the first trip to the hospital. Muzan's father had sneaked him there a few times without Muzan's mother's permission. She had somehow convinced herself that it was just asthma.

The hours stretched by in the bright hospital. And soon, six words were delivered to the unprepared Muzan.

"I'm sorry, but you have cancer."

The doctor pointed towards a diagram, showing a model of a human.
"There, and there. You have an infection in your lungs that we'll have to check out, but then you have lower muscle cancer, around your thighs and hamstrings."

And on the night of the solo Micheal Jackson concert he was going to see in Tokyo.

Could this get any worse?