Heart Of Fire; Veins Of Ice | Kimetsu No Yaiba Fanfic (Kyojurou's POV)

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He wakes up.

For real, and he finds his right hand chained to the bed, by numerous handcuffs, as he tugged and pulled at his restraints. Trapped. He was trapped. They were going to kill him. For a good reason. He knew he had to die. But at the same time, he didn't want to. Every breath he takes in seems to burn his lungs, as he looks around, and realises that his left hand was still free, and he uses it to touch his left eye.

"Kyojuro-kun, calm yourself," He hears Masahiko's voice, as the man sat next to his bed, and Kyojuro breathes heavily, as the past events sink into his mind, and he wants to claws at his right hand, where the demon sank its teeth into it and began to devour his flesh. It still hurt.

"I'm...sorry" He mutters under his breath, as he finds himself alone with Masahiko in what seemed to be a room with steel walls, so different from the paper walls in his previous room, but he needed it. Because he couldn't control himself. He tries to recall what happened, wanting to give Masahiko-san a better explanation than when he had completely stopped functioning, as he delved into his memories.

Instead, he only finds a fractured series of events, and two sets of memories, and he can't remember what happened clearly. It was like looking through a foggy frosted window in dim lighting, where the shadows and figures, the faces the clothes, silhouettes, and the movements were all warped and he couldn't identify what was real and what was false, which was a reality and which was a nightmare. It was as if his conscious mind were stranded on an isle surrounded by an icy mist, or staring into the depths of a ravine where he could not see anything at the bottom.

What was truly horrifying was that he knew that something had happened to his mind, that the demon had sunken her claws into his memories, and instead of ripping chunks of it out, she had painstakingly rearranged small pieces, fragments of his past, his childhood, and then inserted new, unknown pieces as if she were constructing a tower of cards. Kyojuro clutched his head in his left hand, as every thought seemed to bring pain to his head, which increased tenfold with every passing second.

But the pain was not a physical pain. It was grief, agony, for something he knew he lost, but he did not know what was lost. Despair clung to his soul like a black veil, as confusion muddled the few clear trains of thoughts as he tried to block out everything else. He remembers every pain the demon inflicted on him, and he can still feel her hands on his skin, as she devoured his flesh, every strand of muscle, and pulled his veins apart.

He remembers the weight of his sword in his hand, as he swings a blow at Hiromi, but cannot remember why he did as such, the only clues being the flickering remnants of his brother's dead corpse beneath her feet, and overwhelming desire to hurt his father, and how he had failed.

Failed to...

Purge the Demon/Kill the Humans/Protect his Brother/Control Himself/Resist the lure of Human Blood.

"Kyojuro!" Masahiko's voice calls out to him through his scattered thoughts, as he placed a hand on his shoulder. Kyojuro flinched at the contact, as Masahiko immediately removes his hand from his shoulder.

"Breathe, and calm yourself. You are safe," Masahiko looks at his charge worriedly, as the pace of his breathing was increasing rapidly. Kyojuro curls himself up, pulling his legs to himself as he pulls the blanket closer to himself.

"Kyojuro-kun?" Kyojuro looks at him, his gaze tired and yet holding barely restrained panic, as Masahiko slowly brought his hand out in front of where he knew his charge was, and waited.

"I-I-," Kyojuro stammers, as Masahiko slowly moves his hand and placed it on top of his head.

"You don't have to say anything. Just breathe, alright?" Kyojuro immediately falls into silence. Masahiko's touch is warm, gentle and lulling. The weight of his hand is so assuring, and he held no intent to harm him at all. He could not sense a single bit of aggression, hidden motives, nor reluctance in his actions. His touch and voice grounds him into reality, as he grips onto the blanket tightly, and forces himself to calm down.