It began as Tanjiro’s idea, really. After weeks of grueling missions, his gentle voice carried the suggestion one evening:
“There’s a festival in town. Maybe we should all go? Just…to breathe a little.”
Zenitsu jumped at the thought, already dramatic about wanting festival food. Inosuke, on the other hand, only cared if there would be some kind of competition, shouting about smashing drums or fighting festival performers. Nezuko, quiet as ever, simply tugged at Tanjiro’s sleeve with a soft nod, her wide eyes already reflecting curiosity at the thought of lanterns and sweets.
You agreed instantly, but it was Muichirō you thought of most. He wasn’t the type to seek out noise, crowds, or frivolity. You had to nudge him gently. When you asked, his expression was unreadable, pale eyes staring off as if your words were clouds passing by.
“…A festival?”
You reminded him it wasn’t about fighting, or duty, or being a Hashira. Just one night of color and warmth. At last, he gave a tiny nod, almost as if agreeing only because it mattered to you.
The group went together. The streets were alive with paper lanterns, glowing like fireflies suspended above your heads. Zenitsu immediately vanished toward the food stalls, shrieking about grilled squid. Inosuke barreled straight into a game booth, demanding to fight the taiko drummers. Tanjiro and Nezuko lingered at the mask stand, her soft smile visible even beneath the bamboo gag as he helped tie a delicate rabbit mask over her face.
It didn’t take long for the group to scatter, everyone pulled by their own excitements. Somehow, Muichirō remained at your side.
The festival was bursting with noise and color —a stark contrast to the usual quiet and bloodshed that seemed to follow every mission.
Muichirō stood beside you, hands loosely at his sides, his pale eyes moving slowly over the sights. He wasn’t frowning, exactly, but he carried the same calm detachment he always did, as though none of this was meant for him.
“A bit loud.” He murmured eventually, not with annoyance but with a kind of distant observation. Still, he followed your lead, not once questioning why you had invited him here.
At the first stall, you pressed a stick of dango into his hands. He blinked down at it, hesitated for a moment, then took a small bite. His lips pressed together as he chewed.
“…Sweet.” A pause. “…I like it.”
It was simple, but the faint spark in his eyes when he looked at the half-eaten dumpling made your heart warm.
The goldfish scooping stall caught his attention next. He stopped in his tracks, gaze fixed on the darting flashes of orange beneath the shallow water. When handed the fragile paper scoop, he held it delicately, like a katana he was afraid to snap in half. He crouched down, hair falling into his face, and moved with measured precision. In one careful stroke, he lifted a goldfish from the water — success on the first try.
He stared at the tiny creature wriggling in the net with a faint crease in his brows.
“It’s alive."
You drifted to the mask stall after, you held up a fox mask to his face, teasing him until he finally tied it behind his head. He adjusted it once, then let it sit at an angle so his pale eyes peeked through.
“…It feels unnecessary.”
But didn’t take it off, the mask’s painted smile sitting in contrast to his naturally serene expression. The glow of the lanterns reflected in his eyes as he walked with you through the crowd, quiet but present, letting the night’s noise and color wrap around him like something far away but not unwelcome.
For once, there was no sword at his side, no danger looming — only the clatter of festival games, the warmth of food in his hands,…
From there, the evening unfolded, goldfish games, masks, food, and the rare, fleeting smile of a boy allowed to be just that: a boy.