@devilsends, yoshi said › “ this isn't living, this is drifting. ”
nails on a chalkboard, the screech of tires : the sound of yoshi's voice. it pauses the lift of the sake bottle to his mouth, the spin of the laced cigarette in his mouth. this is drifing ... it isn't living. it is laced like the smoke rising between them, but unlike the smoke koji couldn't find a name for it. there's a weight, too. maybe disappointment. it's easy to be disappointed in him, after all— washed up fucking tool, dulled by the pressure of the family symbol of the sea. it makes koji's throat, raw and scratchy, roll out of a laugh. makes him lean back further, tip the last remnants of the bottle into that open and gluttonous mouth.
" — hoooooohh, but at least i'm fuckin movin' while i'm drifting, yeah? "
retorts through that slosh, head canting forward. if he weren't stubborn he'd topple over. his head is too heavy. he looks up at yoshi. yoshi, with the similar frame. yoshi, with eyes less dead than the time he sent him out the door without even a word. maybe they've shifted places. yoshi lives, koji drifts— sinks. this is sinking. someone this bloated with the family name soaked in saltwater couldn't float along the surface, they got pulled under. a grin splits, flashes teeth and raw gums. " you weren't much fucking better before. you got a lot of nerve, y'know? " fingers knock the bottle over.
takes a moment to gain the will to stand, the will to sharpen that glare ( does he look like his father? does yoshi see that man in him like he did in the fucking mirror every morning ? should punch yoshi in the nose. should lie in the middle of traffic. no, he'll just find a body to bury himself in — or likewise bury into him — that doesn't recognize him. couldn't see a man in him they didn't know ) " at least you still see me, or is that not enough? 'sides my type of livin' don't involve seeing your face again, how's that answer ? " throws his arms open wide, steps backwards with a mocking lean backwards of his spine.
" how is that, adachifuckingdono ? " spoken in a true snake's hiss. if the teahouse wasn't empty, he wouldn't hiss it. he'd scream it. he'd remind everyone the rotten fucking son was dragged back from the trash he was thrown in.
the cigarette gets yanked into his mouth, a hard reddish smoke drag sucked in. it explodes from his mouth like a bullet to the jugular. he flicks the cigarette onto the floor at yoshi's feet. " my life isn't something i get to live. you know that. " a glare towards the eye he's missing before he turns, pace quick and voice raised upon his exit. " you ... of all fucking people should know that. " he doesn't look back. he doesn't see yoshi again until he's locked inside of his newfound personal quarters. he doesn't tell him how he got sick that night, drifting between consciousness and someone elses' bed the ring on his neck doesn't belong to.
at least he drifted back — at least the wave smashing into the sand brought his body with it.
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