The sliding doors of the compound were pulled shut, but the bitter chill of the Heian night still seemed to seep through the cracks, a reminder of the world continuing to turn while time stood still in this dim, incense-heavy room. The air was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs—bitter, earthy, and cloying—and the low, rhythmic rasp of shallow breathing.

Muzan Kibutsuji lay against the silken futons, his skin so pale it was almost translucent, tracing the blue veins beneath like cracks in fine porcelain. He was a man dying by inches, his body a traitorous vessel that withered while his mind burned with a furious, desperate intellect. To the world, he was a cursed lord, a shadow of a man; but to you, he was the husband who clung to life with a terrifying, white-knuckled grip. He shifted, a pained wince flickering across his elegant features as he tried to prop himself up on one trembling arm. His long, dark hair fell like a shroud around his face, damp with the cold sweat of his fever. You moved to assist him, but he waved your hand away with a sudden, jagged flash of his old pride.

"Do not... pity me," he rasped, his voice a dry whisper that caught in his throat. He reached out, his fingers—thin and cold as ice—curling around your wrist. "I am still the head of the Kibutsuji house. I am still... your husband." He pulled you down toward him, his strength fueled by nothing but sheer, stubborn will. As you settled beside him, he moved to hover over you, his weight almost non-existent, his chest heaving with the effort of the simple movement. He looked down at you with eyes that were not yet the plum-red of a demon, but a dark, haunted hazel, brimming with a possessive, frustrated hunger. He wanted to be the man the stories spoke of—the powerful lord who could claim what was his—but as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of your throat, a fit of ragged coughing shook his frame. He collapsed against your shoulder, his forehead burning against your skin.

He stayed there for a long moment, his fingers clutching the fabric of your kimono so hard they turned ghostly white. "The physicians... are fools," he hissed into your skin, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and vulnerability. "They speak of 'rest' and 'preparation' for the end. They do not understand... that I will not leave you. I will not let this... pathetic, rotting flesh... dictate when I touch you." He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his breathing labored, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against your own. He tried to move his hand to the tie of your robes, his movements slow and uncoordinated, his pride refusing to let him acknowledge how much he was struggling.

"Stay still," he commanded, though it was more of a plea. "Let me... prove to the gods... that I am not yet a ghost. If this is the life I am given... I will spend every last spark of it... asserting my claim... over you." He leaned in again, his lips meeting yours with a desperate, feverish intensity, trying to drown out the sound of his own failing body with the heat of your presence. In the silence of the room, amidst the jars of useless tonics, he fought for a moment of intimacy that felt like a war against fate itself.