every single day I think about Sei and Shiroba living with Mink, going on hikes with him wearing tons of sunscreen (Sei has a sun hat with flowers tucked into the ribbon at the brim, Shiroba carries a parasol), and Mink has to carry Sei most of the way at first until he eventually gets a little stronger
and sometimes they go into town to shop and Mink ends up dragged around to a dozen different stores to watch them both try on new clothes
Sei makes a cute pouty face and bats his eyelashes and Shiroba goes “I could just Scrap you” and Mink ends up buying them the clothes and holding their bags all day
then Mink’s like “now home for coffee and fresh vegetables from the garden” and Shiroba is like “no, fruity cocktails”
so Sei and Shiroba get completely smashed on one drink each (of something probably garnished with maraschino cherries) and Mink just has to fling them over both shoulders and drag them home like that
and on other nights they just sit and stargaze on the porch swing they begged Mink to build, and maybe Aoba slips out for a while to talk because they’re all slowly coming to understand that it’s safe here with each other, and after a few hours they fall asleep together, Sei’s head on his brother’s shoulder
and Mink looks out the window at them and just thinks, with a smile, “this is good”
So I was listening to Samson, by Regina Spektor, and this plot bunny just hit me hard like a plot usagimodoki. I should have been writing for mink week, but this came out instead. Bonus points, Little Talks shuffled on in the middle of it and I actually literally cried.
Koujaku’s bad end happens. He and Aoba are both saved from it, but not without sustaining some damage. Read here on ao3.
(this is my first time posting a fic here, bear with me if I end up needing to edit html tags and so on)
On mornings like this, Koujaku can almost pretend it never happened to them. Chilly mornings, where the windows frost over and blur the second-floor view of the street, where he wakes an hour or more before the tone of his alarm clock is set to ring. The faint glow from the streetlamps outside filters in and bathes Aoba's sleeping face in a soothing golden light that softens his features, that conceals the worst of his scars. Koujaku brushes Aoba's hair out of his face and traces the curve of his smile with a delicate fingertip touch. It's sweet, Koujaku thinks, that he can smile while he sleeps. At times, it amazes Koujaku that Aoba can sleep at all.
He kisses the top of Aoba's head, settles the blanket around his exposed shoulders, and leaves the room before he looks too long at Aoba's face and remembers what he shouldn't.
In the kitchen he puts on water for tea and waits in silence for it to boil. This part of the neighborhood is quiet now, particularly after dark. It used to be a place where young people would gather, but they've moved on to what used to be Platinum Jail, now that it's open. The last time he talked to Tae, she'd said that she likes being able to hear herself think for a change. She'd spoken, though, in an obstinate manner that Koujaku knows how to translate: She misses Aoba. She's had to go too long without hearing the click of his keyboard late into the night, or the tinny sound of Goatbed playing through his headphones at top volume, or the way his voice goes tender and trusting whenever he speaks (spoke, Koujaku thinks) to Ren.
Sometimes Koujaku misses Aoba, too.
Tae cried when she saw them on the day they were pulled from the tower. Koujaku remembers staring out at the world like a newborn child, or like a sleeper waking from a deep dream. One moment his thoughts had been scrambled and primal, untranslatable, and the next he was leaning on Noiz – of all possible saviors – while trying to swim his way up from under the weight of months spent shackled and broken.
His protective instinct was the last to go. It never fully went, not really. He'd always had it in him, at least since the day he first met Aoba: this rage, this sick red rage, at the thought of anyone hurting such an innocent soul. That was the first torture Aoba inflicted upon him, albeit unwittingly; he was marked by Aoba long before he was marked with scars or with ink.
So it made sense in a way that even after Koujaku was told what had happened to him, after he was steadied and calmed and reassured of his safety – it made sense that the rage bubbled up and induced him to fight the moment he heard the other Aoba screaming.
He was glad, afterward, that their rescuers had planned for the worst. What they did with the other Aoba was only what had to be done.
Suddenly unable to sit still, Koujaku stands up. His chair scrapes loudly across the floor. “Shh,” he whispers, as if he's reminding himself. “It's no good to wake him.”
The water is near boiling, so Koujaku pours it over the loose leaves. Even when prepared from leaves rather than matcha powder, a good cup of tea requires careful attention. There's little more disappointing than a cup that turns out bitter, especially when you know how sweet and mellow it could have been, without your carelessness. He watches closely, trying not to think.
He thinks anyway. The first cup of tea he made for Aoba, who'd followed him home like a lost child, like a ghost. He broke out his best matcha that day and prepared it with all the precision and posture of a schoolboy hosting his first ceremony for his tea club. Aoba's hair was still white back then. White like his skin, like the steam that rose from the cup. The color made it difficult for either of them to relax.
Koujaku knows he pushed too hard, once the natural blue came back in, to be permitted to cut the rest off. He'd been gentle, taken his time, although by then Aoba's hair had lost most of its feeling. He said he wished to ensure that Aoba felt no pain at all, and he meant it. Privately, though, he was more concerned with removing each and every trace of white.
His tea burns his mouth when he sips it, though not enough to startle him. He runs his tongue over the sore spot and clasps his hands around the cup, as if they can pull the warmth from it. Midorijima winters are growing colder, or else he really is starting to get old. The bright kitchen light pools over him and almost seems to intensify the chill, which gets under his skin and makes his hands and neck begin to ache. Years of holding scissors and combs for hours on end, of craning his neck to cut from just the right angle, have taken their toll on him. That's what he tells his fans when they ask why he hasn't worked in so long. When it's warmer, he claims, he'll be ready for them once again.
He murmurs aloud what he tells them: “Of course, that's no excuse to avoid going for a trim every six weeks. Your hair is much too lovely to neglect.” Although no one's looking, he puts on his breeziest smile.
Then he sips his tea fast, like it'll help him swallow the words back down. He rakes a hand through his own hair, which he wears long now that his mother's pin is buried somewhere in the rubble of Oval Tower along with Ren, along with Beni. He doesn't trim his hair every six weeks, or every six months. Six years from now, he supposes, he'll be sitting on split ends.
Koujaku had always told himself that if he ever got lucky enough to cut Aoba's hair, he'd braid the stray strands and keep them like a precious touchstone, like something a mother might do for her child. Instead he spent an hour on his knees sweeping up every trace of white, fully intending to dump the whole mess unceremoniously into the trash when he was through. But when it came down to him standing over the wastebin with a dustpan full of damp hair in his hands, he couldn't bring himself to do it.
In the end he had boarded the ferry to the mainland. That had been a cold day, too. He remembers the icy salt spray stinging his face as he made his way through the sparse crowd of passengers. Until the midpoint of the trip, he leaned on the back rail and chain-smoked cigarettes. Then he took out the bundle of paper-wrapped hair and scattered it, bit by bit, into the boat's wake.
When he got home he fell to his knees and begged Aoba to get on top of him, to smack him around, but of course Aoba just asked what was wrong. What had happened, why was Koujaku so upset? Koujaku had no answer for him.
He sips his tea and finds it cold. He's waited too long.
A shuffle on the stairs, slippers on wood, alerts him to Aoba's presence. He jumps up and puts the water back on, as if he's afraid to be caught with cold tea. When Aoba wanders in, looking small in his oversized sweater, Koujaku acts as if he's taken by surprise. “Ah, good morning, Aoba. I was just making myself a cup of tea. Would you like one?”
Before answering, Aoba yawns and hugs Koujaku from behind, face pressed into his back. Koujaku lets himself smile, lets himself feel warmed. He turns around and pulls Aoba's precious rumpled head against his shoulder. Aoba is pink and flushed with sleep, and can't seem to keep his eyes open long. Despite what the other Aoba inflicted upon his body, he still fits perfectly into Koujaku's arms. He always has.
“Mm, don't go to any trouble,” Aoba says, eyelashes fluttering as he squints against the light.
“It's no trouble at all.” Koujaku leans in to steal a kiss. “I put in extra water, just in case. Can I make you something to eat?”
“Too early.” Aoba yawns again and squeezes Koujaku tighter before releasing him and heading off to sit down at the table. He folds his arms and rests his head on them. “Nightmares again?”
“No,” Koujaku says honestly. If he'd dreamed in the night, he doesn't remember it. He starts scrubbing the kitchen counter, just to feel like he's keeping busy while the water boils. “Not this time. I just happened to wake early. Did you sleep well?”
Aoba nods without looking up, still-short hair sticking out in all directions. He's never been a morning person, and for a while after he wakes, he seems as sweet and defenseless as he was at five years old. Koujaku smiles. “That's good.”
Aoba says he doesn't remember any of it. Not even the times when his own desperate voice overtook the other one's control. As far as Aoba is aware, he slept through all of it, deeply buried beneath the cold weight of the thing that possessed him, right up until the moment when Mink jabbed the syringe filled with a concoction of Tae's creation into his pale white arm.
It's better this way. Koujaku would forget too, if he could, but he never stops worrying that the memories will come back to Aoba in his dreams.
The sky is beginning to lighten by the time Koujaku serves their tea. Soon the sun will seep over the horizon and melt the frost that clings to the windows. Then Aoba might walk to the store with the grocery list, or browse shop windows looking for one that might hire him. Aoba hasn't withdrawn from the outside world as much as Koujaku, but he hasn't returned to work at Heibon. For a while Haga-san kept calling to check up on him and say he was welcome back anytime, but Aoba left his messages unopened and unanswered, and over the months they slowed and stopped.
They're living off Koujaku's savings now, pretending this can last forever. Koujaku spends his days composing and deleting replies to his own unanswered messages, washing and line-drying their clothes so often that they've all faded, and staring out the kitchen window, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette into the sink.
He gets it in his mind, now and then, to step outside. It'll cross his mind that he'd like to catch up with Mizuki, or drop by the bakery before Aoba is awake, while the bread is still warm. But dressing himself well enough to be seen by those who once knew him is a tiring process now. Sometimes it feels as though his muscle memory has faded so badly that he's no longer sure how to buckle a belt, or select a clean matching shirt and button it.
Then, inevitably, Aoba will come to him and start talking about something safe and irrelevant, like a new song or a game he's enjoying. Or he'll ask what Koujaku wants for dinner, or he'll give Koujaku that lingering look, that faint blushing smile, that means he'd like to be taken up to bed, or at least carried to the couch and kissed for a while. Koujaku's strength has faded enough that it's no longer easy for him to carry Aoba, but he does it anyway. He loves Aoba, and it's an excuse to stay in.
One day, he supposes, Aoba will ask why they never shower together anymore, why Koujaku no longer moves to fully undress either of them. Or maybe Aoba will know better than to ask, because although he has no memory of it, he does know where he got his scars.
The sun has fully risen now. The sounds of people outside, bicycles and footsteps and snippets of words, begin to fade in. Aoba is asleep with his head on the table, and their tea has grown cold again.
There were times, when they were young, when Aoba would doze off against Koujaku's shoulder as they waited together for Tae to come home. She'd always offer to wake Aoba when she arrived, but Koujaku would never let her. He'd scoop Aoba up, carefully remove his shoes one by one, and ascend the stairs to Aoba's bedroom slowly, holding him like something fragile.
Koujaku sighs and smiles fondly. The sun streams in and catches Aoba's hair. In another life they might have had, it'd be time for Koujaku to run out the door now, leaving Aoba with a kiss on his smooth forehead. As it is, though, there's nothing much better to do than go back to bed together.
It isn't easy to get Aoba in his arms. Aoba stirs, squirms in irritation, then finally half-opens his eyes and complains. “Koujaku. I was sleeping!”
Koujaku nuzzles him. “You'd have woken up hurting if I let you sleep that way for long.” He shifts Aoba's weight slightly, to make it easier for Aoba to wind arms around his neck. “I admit I'm selfish enough that I wanted to sleep beside you.”
“Hm,” Aoba says, putting on an annoyed pout. He hangs on tight, though. As the light from the wide bedroom window reaches them, Koujaku scans Aoba's hairline for white and finds none.
Aoba may not remember, but Koujaku does. His mind was unable to form or process words for so long, but he remembers in pictures, in feelings. When he looks at Aoba's face, he sees the boy he's always loved. He also sees the scar from where he bit clean through Aoba's lip, and in spite of his own revulsion he recalls how good the wound felt to inflict, how satisfying and rich the blood tasted, and hates himself a little more than before.
He sits down in bed, still cradling Aoba to his chest, just as the other Aoba used to cradle Koujaku to his chest. Whatever else that Aoba was, he had a way of quelling Koujaku's rage. That Aoba often preferred to spur the anger on instead. But he also sat up with Koujaku for hours on end, petting his hair and softly singing him songs like a mother might, if there were such a thing in the world as a mother who isn't too caught by her circumstances to let her voice ring out into the night.
It had felt warm and wonderful to understand that someone would care for him in their own way, even if he was out of control.
On mornings like this, when Aoba isn't awake to talk him down, Koujaku wonders just what was killed that day. Was the other Aoba an unwanted passenger, created to violate, to destroy, to moan and shriek in Aoba's voice because it wanted Koujaku to be crushed? Or was it an intrinsic part of Aoba with a strong will of its own?
Sometimes Koujaku wishes that it would come back out, if only to put an end to the waiting and the fear. Sometimes Koujaku wonders if a piece of the Aoba he loves has been permanently lost.
Bleakly, he thinks: we should have brought Oval Tower down on top of us.
Koujaku squeezes Aoba's hand, and Aoba, in his sleep, squeezes back. This, Koujaku reminds himself, has been his dream all his life. Whatever else has come to pass, Aoba is safe now, and Aoba is his.
It's going to be an unseasonably warm day. The frost is gone, and outside, Koujaku's neighbors are strolling along with their jackets open, or taking the protective coverings off of their window garden boxes. He thinks of crossing the street to ask for some clippings of herbs he could use in the kitchen. He considers buying a fresh fruit basket to bring to Tae, or inviting Mizuki out for a drink. He could even stand to take Noiz out for lunch if he remembers that patience is key.
Aoba could come along, too. They can rediscover the city together on foot, see the ways that it's changed around them. The parks are likely in better repair now, the beaches cleaner. If the weather turns cold again in late afternoon, they'll hold hands beneath the sleeves of their coats to warm up.
And – then what? He'd have to keep his lips sealed, put on the false grin that drinks so deeply of his energy. If he voiced his doubts, if he so much as implied that he and Aoba might both have been carved hollow to the core, he'd scare Aoba half to death. He'd earn nothing but scorn from Noiz. Mizuki has his own troubles to handle, and Koujaku is fairly certain that any sign of instability on his part will be met with Tae marching in to drag her grandson home.
Instead of all that, Koujaku lets himself rest. He drapes an arm over Aoba and whispers, “I love you,” like it proves something. Aoba's asleep, so of course he doesn't answer.
As he drifts off, Koujaku thinks: Perhaps it will feel safer to try something new tomorrow.
