Abeshiya Week will take place from December 19 to December 25, 2016 (JST). It will center on creating fanworks of the pairing Abeno x Ashiya/Ashiya x Abeno. Abeshiya Week will also coincide with Ashiya’s birthday (December 21st)! We’re inviting everyone to join and have fun! (o´ω`o)ﾉ
Please check our Rules and Guidelines for more information ε===(っ≧ω≦)っ
Prompts for each day can be found here (ㆆᴗㆆ)*✲ﾟ*｡⋆
If you would like to join and help us, please send a message ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ
Please reblog and help us spread the word! (≧人≦●）
We would love to see what people can come up with as a tribute for this ship! We will really appreciate it even if you do only one day. Thank you and we hope to see everyone! ☆⌒(≧▽° )
First comes the prodding. Like a newborn baby offered a parent’s finger. If Fumihiko hadn’t known better, he would have welcomed it, would have taken in the gentleness of its initial touch; he would have guided it along, would have helped it journey its object of interest.
But Fumihiko knows.
This is why he: refuses it, rejects it, deflects it, and struggles, struggles, and his lower lip bleeds.
The thing with assimilation, is that it’s something that you know is coming, are afraid of, but essentially wait for. When it comes, you will think: ah, here it is. You don’t get to scream, because you are being eaten inside out, your soul is slowly being swallowed from the very centre, and there is only so much you can do as you relish in the last caresses of your vanishing memories. You only get to scream when the hull of your cockpit is digging into your abdomen, crushing your ribs and ripping open your stomach, and you won’t even be able to get any words out when there is blood busying to fill your mouth, colouring your teeth red.
Tears and blood mix, trickling down his chin, and Fumihiko regrets.
His mother and father are of a history long gone, a history he’d grown out of, a history now out of this era, a peaceful life not belonging in this present world of warfare. The sensation pulls at his nerve with unneeded kisses. The loss of his mother’s warmth as they held hands and traced their way along the riverbank; the loss of pressure from his father’s proud pat on his head and the heavy, booming laughter; the loss of their smiles, their eyes, directed at him with love and care and affection and my dear son, Fumihiko, my dear–
Fumihiko doesn’t cry out; the regret has been driven into him since seventeen, since he’d promised, since they went and left and their graves crumbled under a Festum’s leg-like limb.
He can cry out now, but there won’t be his mother’s arms that can soothe.
Next comes so much, so much – Fumihiko finds himself tread through people he’s once called friends, are still friends with, people he lost due to silicon-based creatures and ruins. And then it’s Akane, and Fumihiko barely recognises the resounding whimper to be his.
Not this, he thinks, wants to say, not her, please. Let me keep her.
In his memories, Akane’s brilliance never dims; she’s always shining, almost angelic, perfect, untainted. She’s holding him, and next she’s holding Kazuki, their son, their treasure, their family, and then there are three of them striding down the stone-walled path – and afterwards there is a photograph, slipped between variously shaped clays.
Every Akane he remembers next is a woman in a frame he gazes at every morning and night, a young Kazuki in her embrace, and Fumihiko can call her his wife, can call her Kazuki’s mother, but Fumihiko – with relief, he notes, and takes in a breath as if it would block the leak – remembers her as Akane, someone extremely important.
The prodding continues on, penetrating, stubborn.
Worry; would he survive the way Kouyou did, would he return with his memories intact and life that won’t evaporate? Would he come back to hug Kazuki or would he become another one in this alien hivemind – would he be nothing but a familiar face not unlike Akane during their despair, once speaking of Soushi’s name as if cradling hope?
Kazuki.
Somehow, mind clouded, Fumihiko is made aware he is whispering Kazuki’s name; it echoes within the steel wall, against the silicon swords.
Kazuki is one constant in his life; another one is the way his son calls him – he says, “Dad,” with a low tilt in his voice, with a linear tone, a bad reminiscence of a boring routine of a school hymn, a parody of a song without actual form. Kazuki says Dad, I’m off the same way he says Dad, why? and Dad, be careful. And in a distance, it’s almost like a lullaby Akane used to sing their son before slumber.
Not Kazuki. Fumihiko gasps, the last inch of him gives for the monster to continue to take.
Kazuki would be all right without him; Kazuki is loved, surrounded by people who would shower him with every piece of their hearts, would give up a hand if it meant his happiness. All he would lose is another parent figure – a father who could have done so much better but didn’t manage to fulfill it at the end.
Admonishment washes over Fumihiko like redemption.
What would Kazuki say to that, he wonders, and regrets some more. This sort of wish amplifies the pain that has almost been blanketed with acceptance of death. This sort of wish makes him long for freedom and life. This sort of wish cannot be granted with these tentacles wrapping around him.
A doctor’s hand on his forehead, and again, Fumihiko feels something in himself snap, pleas flying out of his throat. Not her too. Not Chizuru.
Fingers coiling, a blush, eyes that speak more than words, and the smell of alcohol in a medical chamber. She is looking down on her lap, shy of catching his eyes, despite being sure of everything else.
Her name, Fumihiko groans, remember her name!
The urge to sob craves her name in the wall of his chest, a sweetness that now lades with sorrys. She would lose him, too. Fumihiko can’t forgive himself for leaving her like that guy did. He allows himself to wish once again before gritting his teeth.
He is being stripped naked from the fragments that built his spine, that had kept him stood and driven.
And there is embarrassment in that. There is shame itching in the back of his eyes; being assimilated is an experience, albeit not one to be proud of. It’s a finish line, a means of an end.
When a golden glow pulls on the curtain, cutting off the finale, it’s calming, the still surface of water. What remains is a small, empty shell – almost, but he can still call himself Fumihiko, can still taste the letters on his tongue. Small, soundless word in different voices, and a more distinct, raw Dad!
[more jg hs au shorts before i go off again!! ao3]
vi.
Sakuma squints at the paperwork shoved in front of his eyes. He is barely holding the paper, because Miyoshi lifts it for him, anyway, and Tazaki is near enough that he is practically printing the paper against Sakuma’s pain-laden face.
“I can’t read this close.” Sakuma whispers. There is a faint exhaustion in his undertone.
“You see, President,” Tazaki stands back, arms eagle-spread, body spun just slightly to give the impression of a dance.
Sakuma eyes him warily; because while he is the student council president, he is never quite able to trust anyone actually using his title during a conversation. Experiences prove that there is some hidden agenda behind those sweet intonations.
“Please allow me to hold a magic show for the school festival!” Tazaki declares, eyes sparkling, fists clenched. He is the very image of enthusiasm, dramatics.
“Tazaki is very proficient in the working of tricks,” Miyoshi says from Sakuma’s left, leant on the side of the president’s chair, half-seated on the table, one leg crossed over another, one arm holding himself up and their uniform sleeves brushing. “So am I, but with different sort of,” he licks his lips there, as if to emphasize a point his seductive voice hasn’t done well enough, “tricks.”
Sakuma looks straight ahead at Tazaki, falling into his default setting, which consists of strongly trying to ignore Miyoshi’s presence. “I’d thought the bird watching club would hold an event with more relevance to...birds.”
Tazaki waves a finger and clicks his tongue, a half-grin plastered on his ever bright complexion. “You forgot, President, that there are birds involved in magic tricks,” he reaches into his uniform jacket, and pulls a living, wings-flapping pigeon out of a seemingly flat interior pocket.
Sakuma stares, and proceeds to sigh. “Tazaki–”
“Sakuma-san, every time you sigh, some of your good luck is lost, you know,” Miyoshi chides.
“Tazaki,” Sakuma says it louder this time, “your proposal needs guarantee that no animals will be harmed during your show. Otherwise, it’s a fine idea.”
Tazaki winks, tosses a card that lands right between two of Sakuma’s fingers, slicing into the wooden material of the table. “I knew you would understand, President.”
Sakuma has a constant headache that worsens whenever any of the students do something as reckless as harm a school’s property and/or endanger someone’s life, like now. Sakuma resists the urge to punch at his own nose, and says, “Now get out and revise that proposal before I give you a detention for bringing your pet inside the school building.”
vii.
Making a slow, silent stride towards the culinary clubroom, Odagiri weighs his bag on his shoulder, expression set in stone as he enters, sliding the door open without a hint of a sound.
“Fukumoto,” he says by way of greeting; his friend jolts by the stove, but quickly conceals his surprise. Odagiri observes the still-tied apron and the fizzing sparks by the pan, and says, flatly, “You’re fifteen minutes late.”
Looking fairly guilty, Fukumoto gesticulates at a lineup of uncooked croquettes, “Took longer than expected.”
Odagiri furrows his eyebrows, “Who requested that, now?” His Tazaki and Kaminaga usually asked for sweets, after all, while others just accepted whatever you would cook up. Who would specifically ask for croquettes? is unsaid, but Fukumoto understands him all the same.
“It’s Jitsui,” Fukumoto answers, “the newspaper club is going on a trip, and he wants some bento for the road.”
Staring at his friend, who is flipping food over the oil with expertise not unlike a professional, Odagiri lets out a long heave, “You’re spoiling them too much.”
Fukumoto gives a sheepish smile, but otherwise he says nothing, and lets Odagiri fix him with the levelest glare that soon dissipates into boredom.
Odagiri sighs, resigned. “How much longer?”
He doesn’t say, it’s going to rain if we wait any longer to go home, but lifts his chin at the open windows, at the gathering dark clouds.
Fukumoto merely nods, and gets to working on the rest of his cooking.
viii.
“Hey, pretty-boy,” Hatano jumps in front of Jitsui, grinning indecently.
Jitsui is not even the slightest bit surprised, stood still as he adjusts the pressure of books in his arms. “Hello to you too, pretty-boy.”
Hatano hums, skipping as he walks alongside his classmate, arms lifted and linked behind his head. “Going home?”
“Of course,” Jitsui nods, his calm expression the complete opposite of Hatano’s teethy one. “School has ended, after all.”
Hatano’s teeth look almost murderous, with the way he keeps exposing them, white and gleaming against light. “Sure you’re not off terrorizing our beloved Gamou-sensei?”
“Oh, Hatano,” Jitsui’s voice and smile are sickly sweet, cannot be trusted, “you are so funny.”
“Obviously I am,” Hatano agrees, his voice as sweet but smile more knife-like, “but I think you are way funnier than I am, Jitsui-kun.”
Jitsui raises an eyebrow, the very action a mocking one, and asks, “How so?”
“I decoded that last week’s article of yours,” sings Hatano, throwing an arm around Jitsui’s neck, their cheeks a hairsbreadth away. “You fox.”
The whisper must have tickled Jitsui, because the boy laughs gently onto a fist, almost doubling over on the sidewalk. “Oh, Hatano-kun. Do explain.”
Hatana makes a show of bowing. “With pleasure,” he says, winking. “You wrote a godforsaken morse code on the article. By using the word length.”
Jitsui’s amusement is vibrating off his shoulders. “Oh, you must kid, Hatano-kun.” he says, tone resembling a giggle, “Who has that much time?”
“Knowing you, it’d take no time at all,” Hatano says. “But that was rather, what do people refer to it these days, savage? Of you, Jitsui-kun.”
Jitsui’s gaze challenges him to continue; of course Hatano takes it up with delight.
“Gamou-sensei has a bald spot beside his right sideburn.” Hatano says this, breathing in gasps of laughter, hand on stomach, “Proper grammar and all, too. You monster.”
“I think,” Jitsui’s calm is half-vanished in an increasing volume of giggle, “the word you’re looking for is genius.”
Hatano shakes his head, sighing wistfully, “Poor Gamou-sensei.”
“Have you decoded this week’s article yet?” Jitsui says, and immediately Hatano’s head snaps upward with such force that should give him whiplash.
“Oh, you fox.”
Jitsui waves him goodbye, saccharine smile endlessly beaming. “If you managed to solve it, you can join in on the action.”
“Pity him for a bit, why don’t you?” Hatano laugh-shouts by way of farewell, but there is no heart whatsoever in the way he says it.
ix.
Fukumoto lets out a long breath. "Amari, I'm sure you are aware the culinary club isn't a childcare?"
"I'm well aware, worry not," Amari says, but still he proceeds to rub at Emma's scalp lovingly, the baby herself laid on a soft pile of fabric spread across the marble counter. "It's just, you know, the right temperature here. And there's hot water to make milk."
"Isn't there anyone at home to take care of her?" Fukumoto asks, just for the sake of it, dabbling with a powdery dough on the side.
Amari whistles, "She's my responsibility, anyway."
Raising an eyebrow, Fukumoto gives a sideway glance at the baby, now giving a light snore as she slumbers. "I see," when he doesn't see, really, but he doesn’t ask about the baby's identity either. There is no shortage of people asking the same question, and Amari still hasn't managed to explain anything within the same week.
"Fuku--"
"Well, it's very considerate of you to hide her from the president," Fukumoto says, inadvertently cutting off the person who has just entered the clubroom, "he’s stressed enough as it is."
Hatano's grin widens from the doorway, the setting sun shining ominously from the row of windows behind him.
x.
“You know,” Kaminaga says, falling into place on the chair across Miyoshi’s table, his legs draped over another table on the side. The student seated there yelps, but refrains from complaining when Kaminaga glances at him with his Handsome Boy™ face, instead pulling his arms inward in embarrassment.
Miyoshi whistles. While Kaminaga and Amari are both hailed as the school’s most infamous playboys, they are different sorts of flirt. Kaminaga’s strongest asset is his face, which he uses freely (and sometimes unconsciously). Miyoshi vaguely remembers one of the teachers in their freshman year who used to swoon whenever Kaminaga made to answer his question in class.
“You know,” Kaminaga repeats, for emphasis, “I think I want to be a host.”
“Oh?” Miyoshi recognises this moment as one of many; a couple of years ago, Kaminaga had done similar things to say he wanted to become a model, and years before that, an actor.
Then again, the first time Kaminaga had said he wanted to become anything, they were both six, and it was more of a proposal than a future career prospect.
“Being a host is the perfect job for me,” Kaminaga goes on to explain, “I have all the assets, as you can see.” Miyoshi applauds for confirmation. “And if all a host should do is please all the customers with my sweet looks and smooth words, then I should already qualify as a professional by now.”
“Then,” Miyoshi has never sounded not amused, but there is a lot more gladness in his tone right then, and his fingers are rhythmically tapping on his cheek, “I guess I should become rich enough to designate you and order Dom Pérignon on regular visits.”
The bird watching club lacking members is a history Tazaki knows well, being the sole founder during his freshman days. That’s why, when two of his classmates offered their names for the club’s formation, Tazaki had been extremely thankful. Afterwards, one of them had managed to drag two other kids from another class, completing the required member roster, and Tazaki knows he no longer owes them only one, but several.
And now it’s the club’s first anniversary; Tazaki contemplates about firing them all.
To be fair, Tazaki has indeed agreed to allow Amari and Odagiri whatever freedom within the club as long as they’re willing to become ghost members for their entire three years, after all, so he’s found it hard to simply complain.
“You’re exaggerating,” Amari says, laughing beyond his quick-typing, phone dangling in front of a smug smile, “Kaminaga mistook the trash one time.”
“It was non-combustible trash day,” Tazaki whispers, but really, he can’t bring himself to continue glaring at Kaminaga, who is not looking at all guilty but instead whistling along with each tap of sticker he sends in reply to someone (or more? There’s too much tapping right there for one single person, unless he is spamming.).
“Now, now, at least he admitted his mistake?” Odagiri, ever the mediator, although sporadically at best, says, seated almost too stiffly to be comfortable, leaning on one side to scratch the chin of a parrot.
“That’s right,” Kaminaga hums, as if he has the right to say so, seeing as he didn’t notice as much as actually forgetting the day for his club duty, leaving Tazaki to take care of what he’d left behind.
In hindsight, it might have been for the better. Tazaki sighs in remembrance of a time in the past where he had trusted Kaminaga to purchase some bird food and the boy came back with the petshop girl’s number.
“All of you,” Tazaki begins, softly, “I’ll do all the work around here.”
In one corner, Hatano raises an eyebrow, glancing up from his DS. He drawls, amused, “Don’t you always?”
Tazaki shakes his head in agreement, and wonders when he can get it through their thick skulls that it also means he wants them out of the clubroom.
(They all get the signals, really, but not one of them sees the point of answering. Not when they have such an advantageous hideout to run to whenever convenient.)
ii.
“Can I,” Sakuma pauses to breathe, shoulders slacking into place on his sides, “can I request a meeting with the school counselor?”
Yuuki fixes the student council president with a blank look before responding with a brief “why?”
“At the rate I’m going, I may end up losing my position because of my temper,” Sakuma says, and because it’s in his character to be direct, he clarifies: “Hatano and Miyoshi have been coming into the student council room to taunt me.”
Crossing his arms, Yuuki spins on his swivel chair to regard him fully. “I’d thought you better than some youngsters’ childish games.”
Sakuma draws in a long breath. “They’re bothering me.”
Eyebrow going up into his hairline, Yuuki’s questioning gaze can almost burn.
“It’s not that I can’t handle them, because I can, and my Miyoshi-exclusive ban in the student council room has been working spectacularly so far.” Sakuma tries to explain, “By so far, I meant to say today. The last time I did something similar, he got around it in a couple of hours,” he fumbles at his next words, and resorts to a weakly growled “I just want to rant.”
The nod Yuuki gives next is sprinkled with veiled amusement and interest. “I see. My schedule is free after lunch today.”
Sakuma’s sigh is extra relieved, hand pressed on his chest as if his previous burden has been partly lifted. “Thank you.”
iii.
Fukumoto folds his apron away with graceful haste, jogging out of the culinary clubroom with a number of plastic bags in hand. Making his first stop at classroom 2-A, Fukumoto waits by the threshold for Tazaki to approach him.
“Hey, Fukumoto. What is it today?” Tazaki asks, pressed against the sliding door, shifting through the content of one plastic bag noiselessly, “Ah, the classic choco chips, I see.”
“It’s smaller than usual, sorry,” Fukumoto says, “I ran out of flour.”
Tazaki laughs, “It’s fine, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. You should stop spoiling us with free sweets everyday, you know. We’ll get dependent on you.”
“It serves as daily practice.” A small smile gracing his face, Fukumoto chuckles, “Do you want me to stop?”
At first pretending to make a show of thinking very long and very deeply, and Tazaki says, lips crooked into a smirk, “Not really.”
He spins on his heels and calls out for Amari and Odagiri, who wave in fixed rhythm at Fukumoto and mouth their thanks as per usual.
Sakuma bumps into him while exiting the classroom next door, and Fukumoto lingers longer on the floor as the student council president massages at the bridge of his nose and grumbles into a litany consisting of a disturbing amount of recognizeable names.
“Did Miyoshi come by again?” Fukumoto asks, patting him on the back by reflex.
Sakuma groans. “Not yet, but I fear he will, in a bit.”
Fukumoto nods mournfully. He reaches to grab two plastic bags and hands it into Sakuma’s open palm with the sort of ease reserved to a man used to dealing with a huge variety of people. “Eat some. It’ll give you some energy to deal with him.”
Sakuma glances down at the cookies and looks up at Fukumoto with a hard stare. “I appreciate it.”
Fukumoto sees him off in sympathy.
In the next classroom, Kaminaga makes a grabbing motion at the sweets with close to no shame, while Hatano slips a pair of slick fingers into one plastic bag, and there is one cookie between his teeth in the next second.
“Don’t tease the president so much.” Fukumoto says to Miyoshi, by proxy of Hatano, who then gives him a lidded gaze that can be translated to mean you know that’s not going to stop him, right?
Fukumoto shrugs. He’s expected as much, but at least he’s given it a try.
“Well, give this to Miyoshi when you see him next, then,” Fukumoto says, tossing the rest of his stuff into Kaminaga’s arms. “I think I forgot to turn off the oven.”
iv.
Miyoshi and Jitsui are what people would call partners in crime. They don’t make a point of putting Sakuma through hell daily, since that’s a mission for only Miyoshi and Hatano, and they don’t leer at Gamou-sensei while cracking their fists because that’s something special shared between only Jitsui and Yuuki-sensei. (Although Yuuki is wont to insist he had no hands whatsoever in that one accident involving Gamou, a dark streetcorner, and Jitsui’s motorbike a month ago, which has led Gamou to believe the second-year is leading a backalley gang.)
No, Miyoshi and Jitsui are partners in the gossiping sense.
That is to say, they belong to the school’s newspaper club.
“I’ve been saying,” Miyoshi clicks his tongue, skimming through albums containing past paper articles, “everyone wants to know Amari’s family tree. Everyone wants to know where Emma comes from.”
Jitsui lifs his hands in mock-surrender. “I admit, you’re not wrong. But also, the last time we did a coverage on Amari’s love life, there ended up being an interschool war and an auction for Amari’s affection.”
Miyoshi gives a slight wince, near non-existent. “Right.”
“And we are definitely not publishing another article about how our student council president regularly lifts after school, so,” Jitsui dismisses the familiar twitch in Miyoshi’s smile, “we have nothing.”
“He regularly lifts and swims,” Miyoshi says, matter-of-factly, “but yes. There’s nothing interesting to write this week.”
Jitsui scrunches his nose in thought. “And we are not resorting to taking Kaminaga’s advice on a dating tips column.”
Miyoshi sighs. “I guess it’ll be Fukumoto’s cooking recipes again?”
"Say hi to Emma," Amari says, beaming, a literal baby deposited in his embrace, leant on his broad chest.
Kaminaga drops a whole package of bird food pellets on the floor; Tazaki barely registers the scattered mess in favor of blinking rapidly. Hatano's game is stopped halfway, his following loss inevitable, and Odagiri merely freezes in the middle of sipping his tea.
Amari boos, cradling the young child in his arms, "What bad uncles, right, Emma? They can't even say hi properly."
The baby giggles, pawing at Amari's face with chubby hands.
"That's right," Amari makes kissing noises, and Kaminaga feels shivers climb up his spine with wrongness. Because even there are some things a flirt like Amari would not let himself be found doing.
"Amari." Odagiri, calm and composed as always, an immovable object, braves himself enough to ask, "Who is she?"
Amari grins, a look utterly fond and proud on his face as he says, "Emma is family."
"Okay. But. Sister? Cousin? Niece?" Kaminaga seems to have difficulty breathing. "Daughter?"
Amari laughs – the goddamn menace – waves him off, "Don't be silly," and answers nothing.
[#dgm hallow countdown; day 3: famine / favourite food / allen’s day. AU; late entry bc i was out in the mountains during the week but!! i rly wanted to do a thing for this countdown so!!]
“A liar, aren’t you, mister?”
The breeze is nape-chilling, bone-scratching, caressing Mana on his cheeks with false mercy. Mana draws his arms together, rubbing on the base of his elbows, crouching down to his knees.
The boy’s eyes are harsh, and sharp, and he is going to drill burns into Mana’s face with the way his stare sparks not unlike fire in this cold, white scenery. His red hair is aflame, and Mana immediately thinks of a child’s warmth, and of being scalded if he ever so much as reaches out.
“What did you say?”
The boy’s glare hardens, huffs, his breath puffed. His gloveless hand is trembling when he slams it against his waist, pink on the tips of his fingers. “I said, you are a liar.”
“Now, why would you say that?” chuckling, Mana bops his round, bubbly nose, a clack. “Did I ever lie to you?”
“Clowns are two-faced,” the boy spits out, disgust in every fibre of his being, “they pretend they are fine being made fun of, but once out of sight, they are vile.”
Mana observes the boy’s clothes, neat and stiff, pressed form-fitting onto his tiny body. His shoes are polished; they shine and reflect the sun, gold in black.
“Do I look vile to you?” Mana asks. His mouth slip into a trademark grin, white teeth contrasting against orange lips, blurred by time.
“You will insult me later. After I leave.” the boy says. “You will hate me. Will call me an annoying brat, or a bloody know-it-all.”
Mana rethinks his assumption, and wonders if he’ll be pierced with frostbite instead.
“Did someone say that to you?” Mana leans forward, closer, and the boy shifts on his feet to step backwards. “Other clowns?”
The boy’s gloved hand clenches into a fist, the very fabric being the only protector against the force scrapping his palm. “Those powdered faces hide a liar.”
The snow gives under the boy’s next step, swallowing him up to his knees. The boy gives a little yelp, shivers running up to his shoulders, and then to his nose, from where he lets out a sneeze.
Mana’s smile twitches, and he bursts into a laughter.
“You are an interesting kid,” he says, right before the boy’s head manages to snap upwards with eyes that mirror humiliation, and sees an unsure pause in the boy’s throat, “What should I do to make you trust me, then? Should I clean up my face?”
Barely a second has passed; the boy bends and grabs a handful of snow, tossing the mass hard into Mana’s nose. The round plastic is torn off from his skin, eliciting a tiny ow before the full freezing temperature of the ice hits Mana straight in the head. It’s followed with a violent sneeze that is wetter than the boy’s was.
The boy hums something that sounds a lot like amusement, but Mana focuses on the glop of drenched powers dripping down his forehead, swiping off what remains with one of his sleeves.
An instant awe in the boy’s gaze, washing over Mana’s bare expression. Mana blinks out the water, and opens his eyes to the same heated stare that had kicked off their first encounter.
“I still don’t think you are an annoying brat,” Mana says, gags at some of the powders drifting onto his tongue, “I mean, you aren’t as annoying as you are interesting.”
The boy can almost smile, the motion stopped halfway only due to what must be childish pride. But Mana catches the moment where his eyes soften, filled up with heart and a certain clownish grin.
“Liar,” the boy says.
“Allen.”
The darkness seems to take its time as it begins blanketing the town, and the moon slowly climbs up to its peak in the sky.
The man’s appearance is as graceful, with the way he glides to where they are seated. His suit is fixed without a single wrinkle even as he makes haste, and his polished shoes reflect the silver shine of the half moon.
“Allen!” the boy jumps up, threading his arms around the older man’s.
The man’s hair reaches to beyond his shoulders, braided on the sides to be tied on the back. His spine is straight as he regards Mana, and gives a hand in greeting. “It seemed my Allen has given you a lot of trouble.”
There is no need for Mana to touch the man – also Allen? – to feel the prickling on the deepest layer of his skin – a soft, scraping cry.
Hello everyone!! The D.Gray-Man anime is returning after a long time of waiting and to celebrate the start of the new season, D.Gray-Man Hallow, on the 5th of July, I thought a countdown would be a great idea ♥
So here is how you can participate:
From the 28th June - 5th July there will be 7 prompts (and 1 bonus promt) based on the seven seals of revelation cause almageddon but there are also other prompts so you can choose the one you like best! During the time of the countdown and afterwards you can post edits, art, fics, videoclips, theories, headcanons, or anything else related to the prompts. Make sure to use the tag #dgm hallow countdown so I’m able to find your posts and plz spread the news about this little thing so people hear about it!
THE PROMTS:
28th - Day 1: Deception / Abilities / Innocence / Illusion
29th - Day 2: Persecution / Black Order / Noah Clan / Beliefs
30th - Day 3: Famine / Favourite Food / Allen’s Day
01st - Day 4: Death / Last Words / Goodbyes
02nd - Day 5: Martyrology / Sacrifice / Resolution
03rd - Day 6: Tribulation / Sad Moments / Emotions
04th - Day 7: Rapture / Happy Moments / Love / Friendship
05th - Bonus Day: New World / Hallow EP1 / Free Day
As mentioned before you can use any promt you like for your post & remember to use the tag #dgm hallow countdown. I hope you all enjoy the countdown ♥
If you have any just send me an ask. I look forward to your contribution!!
He'd dissed lots of chances to learn about constellations when buildings were still standing, and Mei liked to bring it up once in a while; back at 14, they were pretty impressionable, everything seemed fascinating, and one extra knowledge over other peers gave satisfaction that stuck to the roof of their mouth. Now, though, Miyuki wishes he's studied about them a little, because often at night he is left staring at the pitch dark sky to think of the what-was and the what-will-be, and it gets old fast.
Also, it may help with directions.
"Are you sure we are going the right way?" Miyuki asks carefully, hands on the back of his head. Very rarely they are able to walk around without having to cover their nose, making these laid-back instances something to relish in.
Kuramochi grips the compass in his hand, slumped over to ease his shoulder off the supplies. "We are heading north for sure. There should be a shelter the next district over."
"You know they said that the magnetic field in some places is messed up, right?" Taking one of the plastic bags hanging by Kuramochi's belt, Miyuki slings them over one of his shoulders that carries the least weight. Kuramochi gives him a light glare for doing so, but pursues the issue no further.
"If we would just get to another district, there'll be a shelter eventually." Kuramochi retorts, refusing to look anywhere else other than forward. He stops walking once they reach an intersection. And then he points at one of the destroyed houses around the area, whose roofs are no more, some of its walls fallen flat on the ground. This kind of view was something they used to have to see while swallowing hard, but now Miyuki regards the ruins with indifference and nods to Kuramochi's unspoken question.
.
Kazuya, Mei caressed the back of his own hand as Miyuki himself caressed the stone bench they were seated on. Later on both of them would blame the wind for the cause of their inability to catch each other in the eyes; instead they watched over the ocean spread before them, tasting salt on their tongue. But there was an apparent doubt in the way Mei let his voice out, in the way the wind carried it to Miyuki's ears, about Youichi--
.
Miyuki breaks out in cold sweat, and Kuramochi's hands are on both his forearms, shaking him awake persistently. For once he didn't dream of youichi, but of the past, and it's cut off suddenly by the way Kuramochi forces their body heats together, putting a hand over Miyuki's mouth.
"Shut up, shut up. There are people." he whispers, and lets go. By the count of three, they are crawling backwards to the corner; it's strategically darkened by a sofa that blocks the moonlight. Kuramochi's one hand is down his bag; Miyuki doesn't think of the click of the safety as it unlocks, and looks ahead towards the place Kuramochi's eyes have been trained at this whole time.
There are three types of people you can meet on the road: first, survivors who have yet to reach shelters or choose to embark on their own journey instead of residing in safety; second, officials and volunteers whose duty is to patrol areas, either to write reports on the functionality of the place or pick up those who still wander and are in need; third, the most unpleasant, bandits. The bandits take things from the living.
(The fourth type specifically refers to habitants of shelters, also the hardest to encounter outside the safe area.)
"Which one--?" Miyuki squints his eyes, catching moving lights right outside the house, in front of a glassless window. Kuramochi sits on his right, their elbows pressed together; they are both trembling and breathless, fingers terribly numb.
"Do you think the officials would sneak around at night like this?" He sets up all their belongings into the hole in the sofa, springs holding the tin cans. The darkness is more than freezing, but Kuramochi's forehead is drenched with sweats, and his arm is pressed closer to Miyuki's, as if asking for reassurance. "Can you see what they're holding?"
Miyuki slides his hand inside the bag and grips Kuramochi's knuckle, his other hand above his line of sight. "That's--those are some long sticks."
"Bandits, then." Kuramochi breathes in quietly, mouth sewed shut. By then he's hidden three-fourth of their supplies; Miyuki can see that he's left the bundle of cash they found not long ago in the bag by his belt. Experiences teach them that if you don't have anything, bandits will take whatever they're wearing. A bait is always good.
"Do we attack?" While Kuramochi has a revolver, Miyuki's only weapon is a rusty Swiss knife he picked up on the first few days after the tragedy, held in the hand of a fallen soldier. Getting into close proximity with an enemy holding a questionably long steel pipe is never good.
"I see four people. Do I miss anyone?" Kuramochi's hold inside his bag stiffens, his index finger, on the trigger, shakes violently. He's done a good job maintaining a silent breathing circulation, though, eyes stubbornly poised at movements outside of theirs.
"No, I also see four." Miyuki whips out the Swiss knife, anyway. The figures are moving closer, lights flashed around the house in arbitrary intervals; the two of them lean lower, but still insist to keep the top half of their head above the sofa for surveillance.
"What do you think, Miyuki? Do you think we have a chance?" Kuramochi grits out, moving his hand out, the handle of the revolver protruding between the zippers.
Miyuki hardly needs to think. "Obviously not."
Kuramochi grins, his shoulders slack. "Your call, Miyuki."
"Keep hiding. If we're lucky, they shouldn't bother to check every corner. We didn't light any fire or eat before sleeping, so there shouldn't be any leftovers that would point to us being here." The figures are beginning to separate, spreading out around the area. Miyuki gulps, waits until it's ensured that there is only one heading their way. "If worse comes to worst, we flee."
Giving a mock salute, Kuramochi slides down, his back on the sofa, knees on chest. Miyuki follows suit; they can hear each other breathe, feel the other's skin, momentarily forgetting the killing weapon in each of their hands. Foreign steps come closer, louder, and stop. Their footwears skid on the floor with a sickening screech, the flashlight they are holding moves up and down the sofa, and they call out, with a bored yawn, "No one is here, oi! How about there?"
Miyuki nearly misses the shouted "Same here! Tell the leader there is no point staying here!" over his roaring heartbeats. (Later that night he will glance at Kuramochi and think that those heartbeats are not his alone.) There are scrambling noises, people chattering to one another, and of steel hitting soil; an unwelcome hubbub.
Long after silence has returned to envelop them, Miyuki hears a click and Kuramochi's empty hand exits his bag, and he folds the knife, shoving it back into the deepest part of his own carrier. As if he'd just held in his breath for a lifetime, Kuramochi wheezes, forehead on knees. Energy is leaving his body; Miyuki drops his head on Kuramochi's trapezius muscle, doesn't tell him that his throat is parched, and Kuramochi doesn't say anything to him.
.
There is one thing they don't talk about: death.
Because from the very moment they took the other's hand in theirs and pulled each other through rubbles and ruins and crushed corpses, they are not dead; they are alive. Inside of them, as if carved, with each other's name to bind, death is a thing of impossibility. They shouldn't, they can't, die, because they've sworn--with the sands Miyuki coughed out along with anguished cries, with the peeled-off band-aid on Kuramochi's blood-pouring cheek and blood-filled eyes, with no one but themselves, under stinging drizzles--that they are to survive together.
There is another thing they don't talk about: Narumiya Mei.
Because it's a promise. It's a rule. They swallow his name, not to ever be let out; they don't talk about the time when they arrived to Mei's apartment, a long search that took them almost hours of circling the same area, because the building no longer looked the way they remembered it; they don't talk about how two telephone poles had tilted on top of the apartment from two different sides, each bifurcating it, and the cemented walls scattered and obstructed the roadway; they don't talk about not finding Mei between the unmoving bodies, between parts of limbs jutting out under blocks of debris.
.
It knocks on his heart, the calling, the reminding, the it's not real, you are dreaming.
i know, i know, Miyuki has responded, repeatedly, to the point that his tongue is tired of speaking it, his hand is numb from waving it off. But he doesn't always immediately stop; he will add, to no fail, which one?
The answer is not there. There are times when he will stare blankly at the farthest horizon, balancing ideas in his head, wondering if he may never find out, and most of the times he shrugs, relenting, and moves on his heels to watch Kuramochi work himself to the bones with the scolding, the worrying, the looks of exasperation shot his way.
youichi hums, running their hands on Miyuki's back, pressing one reassurance after another. His lungs seize, more of a familiar reflex than of a foreign jolt. kazuya, they sing, drawn-out along with sighs.
Miyuki feels fear gnaw on his nape, scratching its way to his throat, and his arms are already holding youichi in an embrace, his forehead sharing the warmth of another. youichi's hands play on his back as though playing a piano, elegance embedded into every tap. Each contact draws Miyuki closer to bravery, to give in to youichi's sincerity.
It is only after youichi stops, song stuck mid-part, that Miyuki picks up his head, ah.
kazuya, youichi says, and although Miyuki is still unable to see any feature of theirs, the two of them are definitely gazing at each other. i am a dream.
[cfv; misakou: somewhat a companion/prequel to this.]
There are times during her waking moments where Misaki would look up and glance at every sliver of blond hair that passes her by; sometimes she trips on her own feet and sometimes she just halts mid-step, and sometimes Kamui would run into her back because she is not moving, her eyes fixed at the face that accompanies every long blond hair within the vicinity.
Kamui never says anything about it, only complains about the crowd despite its very lack of presence. He always steps forward every time this happens, leads the way for Misaki to follow, and waits when she is once again distracted by a single strand of yellow.
Once they are walking along the same pace, next to each other, Kamui grips on her shoulder for a long few seconds and lets go after he is sure she is looking at him. Misaki feels her lips twitch, and joins Kamui as they cross the road.
Kamui is not the only one—Shin-san has seen her do that, too, and he always sighs with a smile. The others are less obvious about how they feel about it; Miwa has never said anything, never noticed anything, but he does tend to pretend for her own sake, and she is grateful for it.
She keeps the scrunchy in the same place where she keeps her treasures; in a sealed box with the key hanging over her neck, dangling close to her heart. She has wanted to keep the scrunchy on her wrist, but the sensation of her blood running through her veins beneath the fabric chokes; it’s too much—it reminds her of the past where fingers would caress and words would be whispered, and before she knows it, Misaki feels whole with love and longing again, a never-ending fill.
“Don’t you want to find her?” Aichi has asked once, when he is back home in Japan, skimming through his cards and spreading them about, with Misaki across from him scrutinising the ratio.
“For all we know, her name is probably not Kourin anymore.” she says instead, buries her acknowledgement for Aichi’s capability to use his connections to form a search. Because they are already this far and Aichi has done nothing like it; he is devotedly waiting for her words, that much she knows.
He is waiting for her heart to overflow, to spill out wishes for reunions.
“Maybe she has her own life already,” Misaki adds, flips over a card. And I—we are not a part of it.
Aichi has a look on his face that he sports whenever he wants to make an interjection, but his fist stiffens and his lips are pursed. His smile then is gentle, like a pat on her back. “You can always make your way into someone’s life. Nothing is stopping you.”
Except yourself, Aichi seems to says, and Misaki is inclined to agree, her mind nodding fervently at the unspoken words. Sometimes Misaki is scared of Aichi, of his sureness for so many things, of her adoration for him.
“You are right,” Misaki says, knows she is half-lying.
She keeps a framed photograph of the Cardfight Club within the confine of her bedroom, placed nicely next to her treasure box. There are several copies, one of which she stuck in an album and several others distributed around the other four. Kourin has taken one, too, and Misaki wonders if it’s gone after the aftermath of Link Joker, after Takuto’s disappearance. She wonders if there are traces of her in Kourin, just like how Kourin has left a huge hole in Misaki’s heart, has left her remains scattered around Misaki’s life.
A bit to the right of the box is a desk clock; Misaki reads the time and dusts her skirt, makes her way downstairs to dismiss Miwa of his shift.
It’s a slow day at work; various people are playing but no one has stuck by the counter for any booster packs. Misaki sits back on the chair and makes a list of preorders, barely registers a pair of girls rushing into the store and the slow and swift sound of the doors sliding open and close.
The sound repeats, however, as if nagging her to look up, and immediately her mind reels towards the memory of the photograph. The picture has had the right lighting to exhibit the right hues, the right places where the shadows fell, but Misaki goes on comparing the colours and lines, her breath caught as a flood of information is processed.
“Excuse me....” Kourin says, her voice hesitant but also familiar and painful and—
Kourin's hair is swept by the wind, the long locks obscuring her face.
It is only a breeze, a swift one at that, but for Misaki, who turns around at just the right moment, it feels like the world is moving in hundreds of frames a second. Kourin reaches and sweeps her hair down, picks at stray strands, and slings them over one shoulder, sighing in exasperation. Their eyes meet because Misaki is stuck in place, her own heartbeats exhausting all sorts of energy she may have, and Kourin smiles, tilts her head just slightly.
Kourin is taking long strides towards her when she says, "Short hair does look more convenient, doesn't it?"
Misaki doesn't reply, bites her lower lip, and leans forward. Kourin startles at the decreased proximity, but doesn't back away; instead she leans forward, too. And before they know it, their noses have collided. The two of them cringe and throw their head back, moaning under their breath.
Their silence is accompanied by relentless nose-caressing, and it is only broken after Kourin gazes at Misaki with wonder and intrigue, her voice a note lower than usual, "What's wrong?"
Shifting on her feet, Misaki looks away, towards where clouds have begun to gather and darken."Is it going to rain?" she says in way of reply, ignores Kourin's eyes on her, heat blooming inside her cheeks.
Kourin hums, follows her line of sight. “It is.” And, not one to give up, she steps into the empty space right in front of Misaki. “Why?”
Frankly, Misaki has no response to that. She whispers, “I—” and their noses brush again, gentler this time.
scREAMS THAT MISAKOU WAS SO GOOD!!!!!! pls continue omg;;; i love the emotional journey, both for misaki and us, the readers, the tinge of hope, but it never comes through and at the end it's just bittersweet
aaaaaaaaaaaaah thank you very much for reading!! i’m glad to know you enjoyed it!! ;;
ok so. i wrote this like a bit more than 3 weeks ago??? and while i have the whole story outlined in my head idk if i will continue this anytime soon or ever so. let me just. post the wip draft here as a continuous reminder. or something.
[cfv; misakou draft; a somewhat return? G timeline.]
The last sound she hears is of her jaws clicking.
Stepping backwards and stumbling onto the shelf on her back, it takes Misaki a while to regain her hearing. The world stops moving except for her and the hand reaching out from across the counter, a vanguard card held together with a thumb whose nail is beige and also very familiar—electricity runs through Misaki’s cheek, crackling with a caressing memory. It takes considerably less time for her to look up and begin comparing this person with the framed photograph she keeps in the confinement of her bedroom. Her breath is caught because she is exactly the same—the right length of hair and the right gleam on the eyes, the bend of her shoulders and the tilted head.
And Misaki whispers, “Kourin,” throwing herself closer onto the counter.
The woman in front of her is startled, a foot pulled back, two hands emphasising the distance between the two of them. She doesn’t have her hair tied on the side or the neatly-parted fringe, but she is undoubtedly Kourin, and when she says, “Excuse me,” Misaki trembles with disbelief; she’s almost forgotten how Kourin sounds, the traces of words Kourin has ever spoken to her that she can rewind in her head are depleting, and every time Misaki loses an intonation within the memory she would ache with regrets and longing. But now Kourin is here, and Misaki is going to absorb everything she can register.
“A girl dropped this card outside. I saw her go inside this shop. Can you possibly give this to her?” Kourin says, almost suspiciously losing breath, cheeks reddening as she keeps her eyes trained on Misaki in an obvious attempt to be polite.
Misaki frowns. This person may not have been 100% Kourin but Misaki can vouch for the last few percents; she knows every inch of Kourin’s edges, after all, even the moles on her shoulder blade—but the formal tone and stiff gestures are against her confidence.
“You don’t remember me,” Misaki says, half as a test and half as a hopeless statement.
The woman purses her lips and nods her head in the way that gives Misaki deja-vu—almost, a breath held—and when she speaks next it’s Kourin’s voice. “Sorry, have we met before?”
Her heart does not beat as fast anymore; the pain from the nails digging into her own palms is disappearing, too. It scares Misaki that this outcome does not drive her into tears, that her disappointment is simply filed away into the hole Kourin has left within her.
“Ah, then no, nevermind. You looked like someone I know,” she slides to fix her position and softly grabs the card the woman–not Kourin–holds out, recognises Compass Lion. “Do you remember the girl?”
The woman snaps back to attention, fumbles into her fingers. “I only saw her back so I can’t be sure.”
Misaki finds herself smile. She leans over the counter, brushes the woman’s sleeve, cringes at how it stuns her. (Desperation is something Misaki wishes doesn’t affect her, doesn’t make her touch others in a fit of need.) “Any one of you Great Nature players missing a Compass Lion?” she calls out, waving the card in question at the humble amount of players hanging by the tables.
Instantly a number of players shift through their deck until a young girl, who is seated close to the back, gasps, “Me!” She makes a trot towards the counter, holds her returned card with relief. “Thank you!”
“Don’t thank me, she is the one who found it for you,” Misaki chuckles, gesturing at the woman, who starts at the sudden mention and looks overwhelmed when the girl beams at her.
The woman crouches down and pats the girl on the head, a smile on her face. Misaki clutches at her elbow, refusing to acknowledge a smile so genuinely Kourin. The girl excuses herself after another thank you, and when the woman stands back up, Misaki has managed to compose a trained facade.
“Thanks a lot for trying to return that card for her,” Misaki winces as their eyes meet, “it may only be one card, but it means a lot.”
The woman nods hesitantly, looks away to break eye contact, blushing to her ears. (That’s Kourin, too. Misaki is tempted to shoo the woman away, her very presence unnecessary and dangerous.) “So this is...a shop for card games?”
“Yes,” her voice level, Misaki focuses her attention on the unopened boxes on her side, glad that at least she is not meeting those same green eyes anymore, “the most popular game at the moment is Vanguard. Have you ever played before?”
The woman shakes her head, supplies, “No, I haven’t...had the time.”
All Misaki needs right now is time to properly accept the fact that not every Kourin-lookalike will love her the way her Kourin did; that there is no use in trying to lean into the arms that are not even welcoming her. But Misaki straightens and it’s clear and sure when she speaks, “I can teach you, if you want.”
The air cackles as their eyes catch the other’s. The woman scrutinises her gaze, and immediately Misaki presses her lips together and softens the hope in her smile.
“I wouldn’t want to bother you,” the woman looks sheepish; Misaki cannot decide if the woman is only stalling her rejection or if she is actually thinking about it.
“It’s not a bother. Vanguard is fun, I want people to enjoy it.”
The woman seems to study Misaki’s every word, taps on her chin with an index finger. It is only after a heave that the woman gives a bow and says, “I’m very sorry, I don’t think I have the time to do this.” She lifts her head and her eyes are darker; she doesn’t quite frown but may as well be. With the quietest turn she shifts on her feet and makes her way towards the entrance. The swift sound of the sliding door echoes with the woman’s added apology and she leaves after another, higher-angled bow.
Her departure is faster than her nervous entrance—or maybe it’s just Misaki’s perspective, as she did spend a good few minutes running through reminiscents in the beginning until finally the light-up image before her very eyes break into a plain imitation. It’s harsh for the woman; it’s not her fault she resembles Kourin, but Misaki blames her, anyway.
Because for a moment there Misaki had seen Kourin and had felt whole again, heart swelling and alive, palms warm with the anticipation to touch. She had fallen in love again only to keep falling, no end in sight.
Sighing, her nail scratching at the box’s tape, she rips open the package to muffle a sniff.
hi! i've been a huge fan of your writing for a while, and I wanted to ask - would it be possible for you to fix the broken links on your Dredge-up Furusawa fic? I really want to add it to my fic recs page but I'm worried the broken links will confuse people ;v;. If it's too much trouble don't worry about it! Hope to see you write again soon ♥
AAAA I TOTALLY UNDERSTAND OMG ;; sorry ive been changing urls so much ahah…….i am out of town at the moment so i will only be able to fix them when i come back, which is saturday. i will make sure to inform you afterwards! thank you for your thought!!
[shohari; Shounen Hollywood, Tommy-centric: changes. Set post-s2e7.]
AO3 link
"It's weird," Makki says; he looks half-stressed, half-confused. "This feels too weird."
"What now, Makki? Honestly." Kira sighs, places both his hands on his hips, tilting his head at the rest of his companions. In comparison to his straight posture, Tommy is bent over, struggling to regulate his breathing.
"It's like, uh, my centre of gravity is not my middle?" As if to prove a point, Makki slides to Kakeru's side, does some of the moves in the choreography, and then slides back to his new position, repeating the chore. "When I was the centre, I could easily find my axis, but now it feels unbalanced."
"Shut up, Makki." Shun rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're just too used to being in the centre that you have a hard time adapting to being on the side."
"Makki is right," Kakeru supplies, "when you're on the side, you're kind of gravitating naturally towards the centre, right?"
It's not the same, though, Tommy gasps weakly to himself, not the same.
.
Tommy has been very quiet in the midst of the typical clamour of the locker room, which leads to Shun jolting in needless dramatics from his right when the blond sighs and says, gaze dazed, "I guess it does feel different."
Unlike Shun, the others are seated quite a distance away from the two of them; Makki is playfully strangling Kira to give up the rice cracker in his embrace, Kakeru is watching them fondly, and just a few moments prior, Shun was in between them, tasked to snatch the snack from Kira's arms.
"What did you say?" Shun asks, peering at his eye-level, and in return Tommy blinks repeatedly at him in bewilderment.
"Oh, nothing." Tommy says, waving his hands in front of his face in defence. Luckily for him, Shun isn't one to pry, and, once he's made sure Tommy really has no intention of saying anything else, Shun tosses himself back into the brawl, ending up in a tug-of-war with Kira for the last rice cracker.
Kakeru laughs a little. Tommy focuses on the sound he lets out, and in a whisper he repeats, "It's different."
.
"Tommy," Kakeru calls out as he catches up to him. The station being as deserted as it is at this time of the night, Tommy doesn't bother the trickling flow of people exiting the tunnel when he stops in the middle of the way to wait for Kakeru.
"Makki isn't with you, Kakeru-kun?" Tommy squints his eyes at the long stretch of corridor behind them. "That's unusual."
"He has a get-together with friends," Kakeru says; he gives a soft smile at Tommy's comment. "We're not always together, you know."
Tommy giggles, "Yeah, but I think you two spend more time together than not."
Kakeru tilts his head to the side. "You think so?"
"Outside of school, that is." Tommy clarifies, lifting a hand over his eyes as they're being washed by the chilly night air.
"The same goes for us, then," Kakeru lightly pats on the back of Tommy's head, mussing up the hair just a tiny bit. Tommy sniggers, frantically searching for Kakeru's hand to grab.
"I think," Tommy whispers, but the silence of the solitary night carries his voice over just fine, "unconsciously, I like to depend on the both of you."
This seems to surprise Kakeru; the wonder is obvious in his words. "Because we're the oldest?"
"Not exactly," skipping forward, away from Kakeru's reach, Tommy spins around to face him with a grin, "maybe, yeah."
Kakeru smiles, slips into a chuckle, quickening his pace to keep up with Tommy's. "So which one is it?"
.
Shun staggers into the locker room, placing a plastic bag on the table. Boxes of sweets spill out from within, and immediately the boys crowd around the pile of food like bees to honey.
Holding onto a pack of Pocky, Makki raises a recently-shaved eyebrow at Shun with a look akin to suspicion, "What's with this generosity? Are you bribing us? What do you want?"
"What," Shun looks fairly disgusted, "I wouldn't stoop that low. Ran-san has some leftover snacks he doesn't need. He made me take them when I passed by his place."
"Thank you, Shun!" Tommy beams, skims through the pile for his choice. "That's very nice of Ran-san."
Shun points at Tommy, states, "See this guy? This is the proper response to my kindness."
"He just called himself kind," Kira stage-whispers to Makki. "How embarrassing."
"Hasn't Shun always been narcissistic?" Makki replies in the same high volume, adopting a conspiratorial tone.
Shun seems ready to sic himself on them, but Kakeru, well-timed as always, inputs, "This stock would probably last a week."
"I would get sick if I kept eating them for a week straight," Kira hums, while Maki is putting aside some of the snacks to make his own pile.
"It does get boring, huh," Shun measures his own answer, crossing both arms in thought. "Guess consistency is not all the rage it's made out to be."
"Oh!" Tommy yells suddenly. "Ooooh."
In unison, the other four ask, "What?"
"I got it," Tommy nods, his face smug, and says nothing else.
Kakeru glances at Makki questioningly, which is returned with a shrug and a headshake, and Shun dismisses them in favour of securing his own, more salty portion, and then falling into discussion with Kira in regards of nutrition.
.
"Night trains sure are quiet," Makki shifts, grasping onto the railing over a seat. "Sometimes it makes me sleepy and worry if I would accidentally fall asleep and miss my stop."
"Oh, that happened to me once," Tommy pipes in, "I got to the last station and had to board the first train in the morning."
"You spent the night in the station?" Makki frowns.
"Well, it was late and quite far out." Tommy waves his concern off, "I slept in the office. A train officer offered a couch."
Kakeru ruffles the younger man's hair, giving a slight pressure for each touch. "That was careless."
"It turned out for the better," actually looking pleased with himself, Tommy adds, "it was also a nice break from the usual routine."
For a moment there is only the usual hubbub from the train's speed—the lull dissolves with Tommy's soft-spoken "I, I like Kakeru-kun and Makki."
Exchanging a look between each other, both older boys reply, although unsure—but thoroughly sincere—with "We like you too?"
Tommy laughs, a warmth spreads over him, a reminder of Kakeru's reassuring hand.
.
When Makki stood on the centre, he was a big existence, both figuratively and literally. His back was broad and he was tall; a leader was the most fitting name for him when he owned the core of the stage. He shone like a beacon, and Tommy would find himself following the light's prompts. He was dynamics and energy, screaming out, "look at me!" at the audience.
When Kakeru stands on the centre, he envelops them with relief and faith, and it's a conviction for a promise. The centre fits him too well, that the floor he steps on must have memorised his weight. Kakeru is nearly as tall, and his back is nearly as broad, but in comparison he is smaller; a reachable entity. He is gentleness and a humble request for attention.
They are not as similar as they could be; they don't leave the same impression, and they have different impacts. But they are both necessary, histories made.
Tommy dashes along the others towards the stage, takes up the area assigned to him, and there is a new freshness in his smile as he looks up, I'm glad they are our centres.
The darkness disintegrates as many coloured lights beam upon them, gravitation of the eye falls straight onto the central position, and it's a lot of life showered onto them all at once.
[Yuu & Mika, mentions of the Shinoa squad and Guren: “Family takes care of family.” Spoilers for chapter 23 of the manga.]
AO3 link
The burnt earth below his soles crackles. It sounds to him like a whispered reassurance, in a voice lodged between his heart and ribs.
Yuu stares briefly at his boots, pulls the sides upwards. His cape drapes over his hunched figure, dark, tangled bangs shadowing his eyes. In the small solitude he allows a few shuddering breaths between his teeth. Asuramaru vibrates on his side, and Yuu tightens his grip on the hilt.
Surely Asuramaru is overjoyed, now. There are new faces he can morph into, after all. Heaving as he stands back up, Yuu doesn't let himself dread his next visit into that pure whiteness.
Mika is crouched on his right, one knee on the ground. Yuu calls out for him and, when he receives no response, frowns and follows the direction the blond is facing. A scenery from afar, enveloped in dust and ash. He doesn't understand what Mika can see beyond the smoke, doesn't understand what Mika is thinking at the moment.
He also doesn't understand himself when he turns around on his heels, to face the same unclear, dirty stretch of ruins.
What he knows is this: they are not wrong.
Asuramaru hums, more amused than before, but this time Yuu lets go of the scabbard.
"Mika?" he shakes his companion's shoulder softly. His shoulders are broader, now—harder and tenser. It remains thin, however, the steel-like feel of shoulder blade under the skin all too apparent.
Mika shifts on his toes, tilts his head, blond locks brushing against his pale face. "Yuu-chan?" His fingers dig into his clothes and Mika scrunches his lips together, a smile ghosting over his words. "What's wrong?"
Yuu asks, "Are you okay?" and means it not only for Mika.
Some colours return to Mika's face, and as he bursts with life and relief and—absolute, undiluted disbelief Yuu is all too familiar with, he replies, "Never been better."
They continue on their track, straight towards where particulates gather in more density. Mika circles his fingers around Yuu's wrist and, in between muffled coughing, Yuu knows for sure that it's his arm hooked around the other's elbow.
The flying sands are making him think—it reminds him of Shinoa and her gasp, the silent but heavy swish of Yoichi's arrow, Kimizuki's shout ("Yoichi, don't!") and Mitsuba's shock as it coils over his name. The wind relaxes and sands quit obscuring their view, and it comes again—the smell of fire and omelette, the warmth of promises established.
This is a betrayal; he is a traitor in everyone's eyes
But for him and the people he left behind, he is as much a traitor as he is family. It's a fact represented by how much Kimizuki's touch sizzled on his shoulder and Shinoa's smirk turned just the slightest bit fond. It's how their presences are both loud and gone.
Guren must be furious, he decides. He tries picturing Guren's face in his head, but out of so many moments they share together, the Guren he remembers is four years younger and satisfied, strong arms ushering him away from the hell that swallowed everything he had as a child.
As he watches Mika walk beside him, moves rash and not at all calculated, desperation biting at his throat, Yuu doesn't think, doesn't say I'm sorryto his family, doesn't feel guilt for not saying goodbye. He thinks, instead, of how lucky he is for Mika, repeating thank god. Thank god.
Because they will understand. Shinoa will cross her arms and sigh, and she won't say it's okay because it's never been not. They will be exasperated, but isn't that their everyday?
That's how family works, after all.
Asuramaru laughs—a familiar, plural sound—pulsating on his palm.
