BUT LOOK AT THIS SHIRT, MY ANGRY SNOWFLAKE:
The already pulsing vein throbs as some awfully familiar whines peal through the air, the shrine. Yukine mentally apologises to whatever god’s ground they are trampling on before shaking Yato further, screaming. “You…! Don’t think you can get out of it that easily, or you’ll really have reason to be scared! Useless, irresponsible… good for nothing!”
He shakes him a few more times, fuming, letting his grip grow more lax even as his gaze does not waver, at least until — “O-oi! Fuck off…!” It’s too late; one arm plastering Yukine to his side, the god’s already encroached upon all boundaries of personal space, until all his nose can pick up is sweat. Face growing beetroot, half with fury, half because he can’t wholly miss even that stench (rather, because Yato is right) — it’s Yukine’s turn to writhe in the other’s grip. “As if…! It was great! No one started making paper planes out of my homework! I was totally worry free!” Still, even as he says it, he sags in Yato’s grip. It was an obvious lie, though not one he could say aloud — not openly, anyway. Words like ‘I was scared to death’, words like ‘I couldn’t sleep at night’; those would reach their target on their own, and if he had any consideration, he wouldn’t mention it. There was no way Yato would have felt anything but negative emotions through their link in the past couple days.
Yato was here — safe, for the moment. He couldn’t help but relax, in the face of that. If they were together, then… even this world might be something they could at least tackle, no matter how bizarre.
He exhales, long, hard. It’s reassuring, to hear him babble about the same old stupid fantasies, easier to slip back into a normal state of mind. “Seriously… is that your priority right now? Sure, there are a bunch of weirdos out here, but…” Even if some of them were bound to be the kind of weird that would fall for Yato’s tricks, that didn’t change the fact that this place was no doubt full of tricks like that. “Where the hell are we, Yato? How d’you end up here? I don’t really remember what happened before, so…” His forehead furrows, eyes drifting far off, shrugging Yato’s arm away to stare solemnly at the people passing on the street. How did they get here? Where were they from? And, most importantly, what in the world was with this…
“Hah?!” He whirls around, scowling again. “Didn’t you learn from that writer that your story isn’t gonna sell?! And, for God’s sake…” He reaches for his bag, flinging it onto the floor and thrusting a t-shirt in Yato’s face — that same face unmistakably emblazoned on its front. “Who do you think made this piece of crap, huh?!”
At the rate that he's spewing out noxious insult after insult, the boy may as well transform into Sekki on the spot and slice his master into physical, pain-shaped cubes — or at least, that's the impression that the twisting and writhing of Yato's features conveys throughout the entire verbal assault. “Yukine... ” Left with nothing but a thoroughly battered ego to protect him, he resorts to a final bout of whining. “Yukineeee! Those are some really cruel things you're saying, think of your poor master's feelings!”
Yet Yato pretends not to notice when he finally relaxes, merely grips him all the more cheerily until he's ducked out from under the clutches of that aromatic embrace, and continues to chatter on, undeterred. “But yeah, yeah — that's exactly right! You'd be amazed at how many potential followers I've already talked to, 'specially after I managed to set up my first stall!” The level of smugness he's radiating is off the charts at this point, although there's no missing the deeper furrow that runs through his brows as the conversation ( if it could even be called one, given its complete one-sidedness up until this point ) takes a more sobering turn.
“As for where we are... I have no idea.” He says it abruptly, gaze hovering on some distant point around the shrine in front of them; it's hard to admit, especially when Yukine's making that kind of worried face in front of him, but his time here hasn't borne even the faintest of fruits ( aside from the trivial pursuits he'd begun in desperation ). No way out, no way home —
It's a relief that he's looking away when the twinge crosses his features, and not for the first time, Yato finds himself feeling thankful that their bond runs in only a single direction. Breath finds its way out in a shaky sigh, and he runs a hand back through matted locks, slicking back his own bangs before continuing. “I don't know why I was brought here, and I don't know why you were, too. I... don't know much of anything right now, to be honest.” Another, longer exhalation. “But, I mean — ”
He doesn't know what else he can say at this point, what kind of reassurance he can offer that'll be enough to ease the nagging uneasiness around Yukine that's tangible as day. Heck, after how rough the last few days’ve been ( guilt; I should’ve been there for him sooner ) he owes him something better than the pathetic excuses he’s managed thus far. So, he's thankful when the shirt provides an excuse to cut himself short, although its existence only sends him off on a completely different tangent.
“This is... Yukine, you... ” This is what he’s best at. In the blink of an eye, he’s gone right back to being teary ol' Yato, with fistfuls of the t-shirt clutched in both hands while large, doelike eyes remain locked on the replica of his face. “I - I... this is... I - I'd dreamt about something like this before, sure, but... this is so niceeee!”
Bawling one's heart out while desperately trying to protect the item in one's hands from any water damage is a challenging task, even for a god. But Yato pulls it off somehow, alternating between choking, heaving sobs of extreme emotionalism to mumbling barely coherent words of praise for the garment. “Fans... F - Fans, Yukine, I finally have fans! To think that someone would make something like this... for me... For meeeee!”
