Chapter Text
The walk back to the estate felt significantly longer with the blubbering child clinging to Jigoro’s kimono. They were walking in relative silence. He had managed to coax out the kid’s name -- Agatsuma Zenitsu -- but attempts to find out how he had ended up in his situation were met with loud fits of wailing as the boy collapsed onto the ground. From the few words he had managed to make out, the former Hashira’s best guess was that the boy was swindled by a girl for an outrageous sum. His latest outburst had finally fizzled out into occasional whimpers, and Jigoro had decided to stop pursuing conversation until they reached the estate.
“Is it much farther?”
Considering how loud Zenitsu had been in town, the boy’s timidness came as a surprise. He had asked why Jigoro had paid off his debt, his voice quiet and his honey eyes shining with tears. The answer -- that Zenitsu would come live with him -- clearly wasn’t the response he expected but the boy only protested weakly before offering tearful thanks. Those were the last full, coherent sentences he had managed in a long while.
The old man cast a glance back at the boy, who was staring intently at the dirt. Jigoro had already carried him when they first set out. The kid had been unsteady on his feet at first, and didn’t protest when Jigoro offered to carry him out of the city. But about an hour into the walk Zenitsu had suddenly become embarrassed and timidly slipped down to the dirt path. His pace was considerably slower than Jigoro’s had been, making their trek home longer than expected.
“Don’t tell me you’re tired already?” he asked and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say when Zenitsu winced and his bottom lip began to wobble.
“I’ve never been this far from town before…”
Jigoro hummed in response and adjusted his grip on the child’s small pack of belongings. Zenitsu had started the journey carrying it himself, but had quickly proven himself unable to manage that between his fits of hysterics and the vice-like grip he kept on Jigoro’s clothes. So the man had picked up the pack himself, surprised by its lightness, and the boy had no protests.
“It’s not much further. We’ll be there before nightfall.”
The sky was painted pink and orange by the time the estate was in sight, and the two were still walking in silence. Zenitsu pulled away from Jigoro and swiped at his face with the arm of his yutaka to clear most of the tears and snot off and gazed at the house with obvious wonder. Still, he hesitated on the threshold and didn’t move until Jigoro took his thin arm and physically pulled him inside.
Jigoro was used to wariness; Kaigaku was like a feral cat for months after the pillar had taken him in, avoiding contact and interpreting every action as a personal threat. Even now, the moody teen was standoffish at best. Zenitsu was already much more agreeable in that respect, wordlessly allowing Jigoro to lead him through the quiet halls of the estate towards the kitchen. Kaigaku must have eaten hours ago as the kitchen was clean and a plate of onigiri sat in the middle of the table as a silent offering. The child was staring openly at the food until he noticed Jigoro’s eyes on him and quickly turned away even as the old man slid the plate towards him.
“You must be hungry.”
The boy shook his head quickly, eyes downcast and fingers gripping the hem of his yukata. “No thank you.”
The old man snorts a laugh, “I could hear your stomach growling on the walk over. Take it.” He holds a rice ball out, only for the boy to shrink back and shake his head again.
“I...I can’t pay for it. You know I don’t have any money.” Zenitsu whispers. His voice is thick, like he’s trying not to cry. He had been sobbing the entire walk here, but Jigoro realizes with a stab of guilt that this is different. The child is ashamed and trying desperately not to fall into another trap he can’t crawl back out of.
Jigoro takes Zenitsu’s hand and places the rice ball into it. Hesitantly the boy looks up, honey eyes peeking out from under choppy bangs to meet the man’s intense gaze.
“You don’t have to pay for it,” he says firmly, “Do not worry about money here, Zenitsu. You are my student and I will take care of you. And in return, you will become a swordsman.”
Slowly, slowly, the boy brings the rice ball to his lips and takes a bite. Tears fall immediately, fat globs running down Zenitsu’s dirty cheeks as he devours the rest in two huge bites. Jigoro hands him another and the boy silently sinks to the floor while he eats, too exhausted to keep standing.
This is how Kaigaku finds them; his master feeding rice to a crying child on the floor.
“Go get the bath ready.” Jigoro instructs his pupil, and Kaigaku responds with a baffled expression so he continues, “Zenitsu should wash up before bed.”
The boy was filthy. The muddy stains on his clothes and face could be attributed to his earlier beating, but the tears and holes told another sad story of their own. Jigoro already knew that the clothes were heading for the trash as soon as Zenitsu took them off.
The young boy had stopped crying shortly after Kaigaku walked off without a word and was busy wiping his face off with his sleeve. He turned to the man, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears and mumbled; “You have a bath in your house?”
Zenitsu must have liked the bath, because he stayed there for over nearly an hour. It gave the old man enough time to set up a futon in a spare room. His older student had returned from the bath with just two words -- “He’s loud” -- and his sensei decided that Kaigaku would be much less tolerant of the boy’s ability to cry endlessly. For everyone’s sake, it was probably best to give the child some space of his own that night. He also set out a spare yukata for the boy to sleep in. Jigoro was a short man and while his clothes wouldn’t be a perfect fit, they would do until their next trip into town. This also gave him time to really reflect on what the hell the swordsman had gotten himself into.
Kaigaku was supposed to be his last student. Jigoro had been training slayers for decades since his retirement, and each time a crow arrived to report another fallen pupil, the man felt a piece of his heart wilt and fall like blossom petals. Kaigaku had been adamant about learning to kill demons. He hadn’t explained why, and Jigoro hadn’t asked because he was sure he could guess the answer. Most joined the corp for the same, sad reasons.
But Jigoro had a big heart. Some had seen that as a weakness but the former Hashira knew the truth; compassion made men strong. And it was that strength, that innate desire to help the weak, that separated good swordsmen from great ones. And despite the child’s pitiful state in town, Jigoro had sensed that same compassion inside Zenitsu.
“Um.” A small voice says from the doorway and the former Hashira turns to see Zenitsu with his seemingly ever-present anxious expression. “My clothes are gone?”
With just a towel wrapped around his thin waist, Jigoro finally gets the chance to take a good look at the boy. Unfortunately, Jigoro’s first thought is that he looks like a drowned rat. It’s cruel and he knows it, but between the still-dripping locks of hair plastered to the boy’s face, his pronounced front teeth, and the wide-eyed nervousness the description isn’t completely inaccurate. Fully clothed the boy had looked scrawny, and perhaps the old man shouldn’t have been surprised by the kid’s visible ribs or bony legs. But his heart aches anyway. He recognizes the blotches of red blossoming over his skin as the beginnings of bruises. Those would heal in a few days; emotional ones took much longer.
“Of course they are. You’re not going to put those dirty things on after you got clean, are you?” Jigoro laughs and Zenitsu blushes, because that had very much been his plan. The old man gestured to the gray yukata he had laid out, “Here, you’ll borrow this until our next trip into town.”
As expected, the boy doesn’t put up a fight. Despite their similar heights, Zenitsu is significantly skinnier and is practically swimming in the fabric. The sight is enough to make up Jigoro’s mind; training could wait until Zenitsu was in better shape. There was no use trying to build without a sturdy foundation.
“I’ll show you around the place tomorrow. And in a few weeks you’ll join Kaigaku in training. But don’t think you’ll be slacking off until then! There’s plenty of chores around here...” he trails off as the boy tries to hide a yawn behind an oversized sleeve. “But let’s talk about that tomorrow, yeah? Get to bed and I’ll see you in the morning.”
For a moment the child stands still, his gaze shifting between the futon and Jigoro who was putting out the lanterns. With just one lantern remaining, Zenitsu finally gets settled. “Thank you. You’re being very nice to me.”
It was phrased like a question.
“A good Master takes care of his student. And you just happen to have the best Master in the business. Most swordsmen would be jealous, you know.” Again, the old man’s laughter is met with silence. In fact, Zenitsu isn’t even looking in the old man’s direction. He stared up at the ceiling with his brows knit together and gave no indication that he planned to continue the conversation. With a sigh and a final goodnight, Jigoro puts out the last lantern and leaves the room. Just before he closes the door, a small voice comes from the futon.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’ve already answered this.”
“I can’t pay you back.” It's dark, but Jigoro can tell by the sound of his voice that Zenitsu is crying. Just like in the kitchen there are no theatrics, just raw emotion.
“I told you not to worry--”
“I can’t do anything,” Zenitsu cuts him off with a sob, “I won’t be a good swordsman. You won’t get your money back. I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry--”
“Stop apologizing! How can you give up before you’ve begun? Nobody excels on their first attempt. Men are not born great, they must put in effort and work to improve themselves. Do you think you’re different from them?”
From the darkness comes weeping but no retort.
“I’ve been cultivating swordsmen for longer than you’ve been alive and I don’t waste my time on just anyone. You are here because I chose you. I’m giving you a chance, the least you can do is take it. Got it?”
Ugly, snotty sobs are the only response Zenitsu can manage. With a sigh Jigoro tries again, more gently this time. “Will you try?”
What follows are a few shaking, gasping breaths as Zenitsu tries to quiet his sobbing. Then, finally: “...Okay.”
“Good. Now, go to sleep.”
The old man always woke up before sunrise; a habit that came from years as a slayer and as a sensei. But regular civilians — especially children — rarely woke that early unless their job demanded it. Even Kaigaku, who had been stubbornly feigning sleep when Jigoro retired for the night, wouldn’t stir for another hour or so. But as soon as Jigoro opened the door to his room, he heard Zenitsu’s snap open. He had been waiting for him to wake up, Jigoro assumed, judging by the quick reaction. The boy lingered at the threshold, his choppy hair sticking up in every direction and rubbing sleep from his eyes. The man instinctively reaches to smooth it back down and doesn’t miss how Zenitsu flinches at the raised hand. But he lets Jigoro coax his hair into something vaguely presentable with a confused smile, like he didn’t understand why the old man would bother. Sleep had seemingly banished any lingering wariness Zenitsu had and Jigoro found himself with an unanticipated extra weight attached to his sleeve. After the quick greeting, Zenitsu was glued to the old man’s side and was much more talkative, as if he hadn’t spent their first hours together either weeping and despondent or in hysterics.
“You have a sparrow nest outside with three babies,” he reports, openly staring at the old man and clearly expecting a response.
“Do I?” That’s such an odd observation that Jigoro gives the boy a bemused smile. “And how do you know that?”
“I heard them. The nest is…” he trails off and closes his eyes. Then he points, to the left and a little behind them, “over there. The parents flew away this morning.” Zenitsu clearly thought nothing of his comment until he felt the old man’s eyes on him. He ducks his head, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry. Didn’t you hear them?”
“No, I didn’t. You heard them from all the way in here?”
“Um. Yes.” Zenitsu did not elaborate, but did apologize again for reasons the man couldn’t understand. Their short walk to the kitchen continued in comfortable silence.
The former pillar had tried to dissuade the boy from gripping his sleeve, gently at first and then sternly when Zenitsu had grabbed his arm while Jigoro was cooking breakfast and nearly sent the hot food flying directly into his face. Predictably, Zentisu had cried and apologized profusely, claiming he only wanted to see what the old man was making and swore it would never happen again.
Not even a minute later he felt tiny hands grip the fabric at his side while honey eyes stared owlishly at the bowls of rice, and Jigoro accepted his fate.
The former Hashira has expected to repeat his experience with Kaigaku, who had spent weeks being surly and cautious before he accepted Jigoro’s kindness. But Jigoro can already see that Zenitsu trusts him after a quick meal and a place to sleep.
Pain constricts around his heart knowing he’s not the only person the boy has trusted so completely. But here he was, burnt countless times and still leaning towards the fire with the hopes of finding warmth.
“What do you like to eat?” Jigoro asks and out of the corner of his eye he sees Zenitsu shrug.
“I don’t know.” He answers finally, busying himself with tracing one of the triangles on the former Hashira’s kimono.
“Yes you do.”
“I like sweets.” he answers finally. It’s a childish answer and Jigoro wonders how old Zenitsu actually is. He hadn’t thought to ask.
Kaigaku wanders into the kitchen and pointedly doesn’t look at either of them as he sits down; it’s immature behavior, perhaps, but a reminder that Kaigaku is still young too. Jigoro gestures at Zenitsu to sit as well, and the boy hesitantly chooses a seat across from the other student.
“Good morning.” The boy smiles and Kaigaku, as Jigoro expected, doesn’t indicate he heard the other at all. Undeterred, Zenitsu continues, “Thank you for helping me with the bath yesterday.” Another lapse of silence. “My name is Agatsuma Zenitsu.”
By now the younger boy got the hint and turned his attention back towards his new master just as the man sets down bowls of soup.
“Thank you, Jii-chan.”
Kaigaku’s head snapped towards the pair with alarming speed, a look of disbelief morphing quickly into contempt. Before Jigoro could process the words, his student spat out:
“Sensei is a former Hashia. A killer of demons. Show him respect!”
Zenitsu visibly flinched and shrunk back, his shy smile vanishing in an instant.
“Kaigaku,” the old man begins sternly, “Zenitsu is a new student. I haven’t had the chance to explain--”
“Demons?” Zenitsu repeats, his voice soft and far away. The boy’s face scrunches up in confusion, and as Jigoro turns his attention towards his newest pupil he sees the dam burst.
“Demons?!” Zenitsu leaps from the table and throws himself to the ground with alarming speed, his voice rising in volume and pitch with each word, “Demons? You mean like monsters? Monsters who eat kids up in the middle of the night? I can’t fight demons! I’ll die! I’ll really, really die!”
Kaigaku sends his master a look that says ‘Where the hell did you find this kid?’
“Zenitsu, calm down! You don’t have to fight demons yet--”
“ Yet ! Yet! You took me in just to kill me!”
In the end, Jigoro had to promise -- ‘really, truly promise?’ -- to protect the boy from demons until he was ready to face them. That had calmed Zenitsu enough for him to stop sobbing and sit back at the table. He then immediately asked Kaigaku for the same promise, and from the cruel smile slowly creeping into his pupil’s face Jigoro knew Kaigaku was about to say no. Dreading another meltdown, Jigoro shoved a pair of chopsticks into their hands and pointed at breakfast.
“Eat.” As expected, both boys were cowed by the stern tone of his voice. A few bites in and Zenitsu is sniffling again.
Kaigaku mutters something under his breath, too soft for Jigoro to hear but Zenitsu says; “I know, I’m sorry. I’ve just never had this before.”
“You’ve never eaten salmon and rice?” Kaigaku asks bluntly, rolling his eyes.
“Someone to eat with.”
Kaigaku, at least, actually looks ashamed of himself. He glares into his breakfast, not meeting either of their faces as he mumbles, “Well, we do this every meal. You’ll get used to it.”
“Meals taste better when you eat them together. But I’m afraid you won’t get used to Kaigaku’s cooking.” Jigoro laughs boisterously and though Kaigaku looks like he wants to protest, he stays silent. Zenitsu looks between the two, trying to decide what reaction was expected of him. He smiles when the old man meets his gaze and winks. “And what about you?”
“Oh, I can’t cook! I’ve never done it before so—“ Zenitsu answers, sounding panicked. But he trails off, shakes his head, and tries again. “But…I can learn!”
“That’s a good answer.” Jigoro nods and is immediately rewarded with the biggest smile he’s seen from Zenitsu yet.
The rest of the meal passes without another word from Kaigaku, which Jigoro expected, and without any more outbursts from Zenitsu, though the kid did have fat tears rolling down his cheeks the entire meal despite the fact that he was smiling with each bite. When the tables were cleared and the kitchen tidied up, the boy returned to nervously clutching at the fabric of his borrowed clothes. Kaigaku was already outside and before Jigoro turned to join him he held out his hand towards Zenitsu.
“Come. You can join us for training.”
“But I thought you said--”
“Just to watch,” the man cut him off, already anticipating Zenitsu’s protests. “Think of it as a look into your future. Before you know it, you’ll be standing alongside Kaigaku.”
The boy frowned, staring intently at his hands. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, as if he was trying to say something but the words were caught in his throat. The former Hashira cleared his throat, his intention clear; say your piece now or come outside.
“What if I don’t?” The boy’s head snaps up with eyes wide in panic, realizing his words came out wrong. “What if I try and I’m still useless? If that happens…can I still stay here?”
Jigoro opens his mouth to respond, but Zenitsu’s words are spilling out of his mouth water from a tap. “I just really like it here and you’re so kind to me and…and I know you said I had to try but I’ve tried lots of things before and I’m not good at any of them so—“ the seemingly endless supply of tears were running down his red cheeks again, but he keeps going, “—so when that happens, would it be okay if I stay anyway?”
Two strong hands fall on the boy’s shoulders. When Zenitsu doesn’t meet his gaze, Jigoro shakes him, gently but enough to coax the boy’s chin to lift. “Did I say you had to be great?”
“No, but--”
“I said you had to try. You might fail a hundred times or a thousand times and that’s fine as long as you continue to put in effort. Trying is enough.”
A silence fell over the kitchen and even Zenitsu’s sniffling had subdued. Then, with speed Jigoro had not expected, the boy’s thin arms are wrapped around him in a tight, desperate embrace. The former Hashira could feel his face go red at the bold display of affection.
Despite his crying, loud ugly wails and dripping snot, he sounds unmistakably happy. “Thank you for being nice to me!” When he pulls away and a string of snot follows, Zenitsu cries again. “And I’m sorry I keep getting your clothes gross...”
“I’ll teach you to do the washing later today.” Jigoro answered, silently willing his face to return to its usual color. Luckily the boy wasn’t looking at him, too worried about wiping the snot and tears running down his face onto his borrowed sleeve. The man's hand found the boy’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze before pushing him towards the door. “Now come on, we’re wasting daylight. We should already be on the training grounds by now.”
Zenitsu sniffled and nodded once as his little hands found the back of Jigoro’s kimono, a now-familiar weight that Jigoro would never admit to finding cute.
“Okay.” the boy smiled. It was a shy, small thing, but a smile nonetheless. “I’m ready.”