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Sep 26, 2015

Three Gifts Mink Received

(and one he gave himself)

This is for the last day of minkweek. Happy Birthday, Mink!

~5,000 words. See summary/warnings/etc here on ao3. You can also click here to read on Tumblr without formatting from my theme.

In the coming years, as the world around him grew bleaker, Mink would conjure up the sights and smells of childhood birthdays to carry him through: cooking oil, fresh milled corn, the year's first batch of plump sweet dates stuffed with nuts and honey. His mother at the stove, draped in her favorite shawl, smiling and singing off-key. His aunts fussing over the gifts they'd made him – cakes, woven blankets, trinkets of silver or beads, winter clothes – each insisting the others had done better as they sifted through the pile of glittering loot, carefully concealing it all from Mink's view with their shoulders.

Birthdays in the village were intimate family affairs. Other holidays were held in higher regard, and there never was enough money for extravagant gifts or parties anyway. Mink knew, for instance, that he'd never receive the small library of books he really wanted. None of this served to temper his excitement whatsoever.

When he was too young for school, one of his aunts would take him out for an hours-long stroll in the forest to allow the others time to decorate and prepare. He was always the first to wake on those days; he'd be waiting by the door with his boots on before sunrise, fidgeting and squirming, pretending as though he weren't praying for the time to go faster.

In later years, the magic faded a little, but never went away completely. He'd grown shy of being the center of attention, but he could stand it if he told himself that it was for his sister, who shrieked with happy laughter each time she watched him blush over a gift and stutter out his thanks. She wormed her way into helping prepare the food when she was really much too young to do it; her intuition always was uncanny, and she could tell that by then that out of every birthday tradition, he liked the food best.

And before school, she'd help him decorate his hair for his special day. She never did master the patience or care it took to properly braid, but he couldn't find a negative word to say as she wove through his hair with freckled fingers that, by then, were just beginning to lose their summer tan. She always chose pink feathers for him. This took some confidence for him to pull off in front of the worldlier boys of the village, but he wore them with pride, and in time the habit stuck.

One year when she must have been about five, he came home to find her huddled up with his aunts over the gifts. There was shushing all around when he walked in, and his sister grinned at him with a gap-toothed smile. He went over to hug her and fix her hair, and he might have craned his neck to try to see what they were so worked up about. Of course, he couldn't – they closed ranks in front of him. You never could accuse anyone in Mink's family of being unable to keep a secret.

His gifts that year were truly wonderful. It was an unusually cold autumn, and several aunts worked together to make him a quilt in warm, earthy colors (with a few choice squares of pink, and he could guess who picked those out). He'd felt honored; jewelry, not sewing, was his family's specialty, and it meant a lot that they'd brushed up on their skills that much, just for him. He told them, in honesty, that it was beautiful. He received some beads and stringing wire for his own personal collection as well, and the moment he laid eyes on them he was already envisioning what he'd use them to create.

But the best gift by far came from his sister. He'd never seen her act shy before, not once in her life, so he was surprised to see her bite her lip and refuse to make eye contact as she handed him what looked like a thick stack of folded paper, bound together at one edge with string.

She'd made him a book. The cover was decorated with a crayon picture of them together, him in long braids and her in shorter pigtails, pink feathers adorning them both.

From what he could glean at a glance, the story was about the two of them saving a small pink baby bird that had fallen from its nest. In return, the bird gave them feathers whenever they had the need, and kept watch over them from above. The pictures were painstakingly done, filling entire pages with bright color. The text was sparse but beyond her years, half in English and half in the dialect spoken only in their hometown.

It filled him with pride and nearly brought him to tears all at once, to know that his little sister was so thoughtful, so perceptive, that she'd realized how much he loved books and chosen to make him one. He'd spent the rest of the night sitting beside her, his new quilt pulled over both of them, reading her book from cover to cover and complimenting every detail of it, from the shade of pink she'd chosen to the lovely bows she tied in the string that bound it together.

The two of them would read the book to tatters in time, and it'd be lost to the ages. That was sad, but not too troubling for Mink. The real gift wasn't the book, but the girl who gave it to him, and the knowledge that he had helped shape her.

He wouldn't take credit for teaching her to write, though he'd been reading and writing with her since she could first hold a pencil. He wouldn't take credit for her kindness; it was inherent to her.

But it came as a small solace, back then and much more later on, that he played a part in the passion, skill, and confidence she'd grown to develop. He had, in at least a small way, helped to make her short life shine.

He didn't know it was his birthday, because he'd spent the weeks leading up to it in a half-anesthetized haze.

If he was still in his cell, he'd have known, because he marked the days off on the wall by scratching a fingernail through the years of accumulated grime. Some of the other prisoners counted days until their release; Mink counted days because when it was over, when all was said and done, he wanted to have a number to give to Toue. For this many days, you have escaped me. This time you will not.

He wasn't in his cell anymore, though. He didn't know where he was. It smelled of blood and disinfectant, and after the shadowy halls of the prison, it seemed painfully bright. He'd been cold for a long time, with a thin sheet over him and flat metal beneath him and bumps rising on the skin of his arms and chest.

There were doctors here, none of whom had the first thing in common with any doctor he'd ever seen in his youth, and he vaguely remembered them saying something about wanting to look at his lungs. Which, judging from the thick bandage padding one side of his chest, they may already have done.

He'd heard others on his cell block mention being knocked out and taken away for experiments that couldn't be carried out inside the prison itself. Some never returned, which didn't frighten Mink. All he he had on his mind, now that his ability to focus was coming back to him, was that new places meant new information.

He tried to get up and look around, but lifting his head just slightly made his chest ache and his vision gray out. Which was no good reason to stop trying, as far as he was concerned. But when he heard the door swing open, followed by the patter of soft footsteps, he lay down and feigned sleep.

“It's okay,” a quiet voice said. “I know you're awake. You don't need to pretend.”

Could be a lucky guess, or could be that they're watching him. Hidden cameras, two-way mirrors? The voice sounded little, like just a soft-spoken kid, but Mink knew that even the young could be dangerous. He didn't risk replying.

Mink felt something soft and bulky being placed on the table beside his head. He kept still, breathed slow and calm. The voice said, “I've brought bandages for you to hide them under. Press it all close to your skin and wrap the bandages around to keep it in. They shouldn't search you too thoroughly when you're coming back from here.”

Was someone giving him weapons? Information, medicines, other contraband? His first thought was that he must have been mixed up with another patient from the prison who'd arranged a deal ahead of time. He tried to think fast – would it be better to take what was being offered, or speak up to avoid getting on anyone's bad side?

“It's a good idea to get some blood on the bandages too. If you can't draw blood on command, I can. No one will notice an extra wound on me.”

There was something off about the whole situation. He didn't want to get in deeper, not while he was in such a vulnerable position. This was under-the-table business, nothing relevant to him. He just wanted the kid to shut up and go away.

And he got what he wanted. Footsteps receded, and he thought he could hear a slight shuffle to them, like a limp.

Then, from farther away, the voice addressed him. “It would be distasteful to offer you any well wishes now, so I'll only say that I hope your future birthdays are happier.”

His eyes flew open. He sat halfway up, struggling against dizziness. The stranger was looking for him, not someone else.

“Who are you?” he demanded, ignoring the ache that came from breathing in deeply enough to speak.

He caught a fleeting glimpse of the stranger frozen in the doorway then. Just a kid in dark clothing and an unflattering hat. Pale skin, straight hair, a ghost of a smile. “I'm sorry. I'll try to help you again, if I can.”

Then Mink was alone, confused, half-certain he'd hallucinated, or perhaps seen a spirit. The bundle by his head, though, was tangible, real. He struggled against the tight pain in his chest, but couldn't manage to turn on his side for a closer look. Instead he pushed his hand through the gauze and felt for whatever might be concealed in it.

His fingertips touched painted wooden beads.

He grabbed them and held them to the light.

It was everything. The stranger has returned to him everything he'd had on him on that night. A half dozen bracelets and anklets crafted by family, by friends, by people who have been taken from him. The pink feathers from his hair, and his pipe, disassembled.

He should have run after the stranger and demanded to know more, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he clutched the tiny bundle of precious things close to him. He whispered a prayer of gratitude, and one of remorse for having failed to show gratitude in so many years. He whispered a prayer of cleansing, knowing whose hands these trinkets might have touched, and a prayer of protection that he hoped might keep his secret from being found out.

By then, he had the strength to sit up. He pressed the first bracelet into the skin of his thigh and wrapped the first layer of bandage around it. He bit deeply into the flesh of his palm, drawing blood, and smeared on what he hoped was enough to seep through to the top.

He worked until it was done, and then with what energy he had left, he mouthed to himself a prayer of mourning.

2.5.

It wasn't that Mink wanted to buy himself a birthday gift. It was just that he needed an Allmate, and the day he felt like shopping for one happened to be his birthday. He wasn't much in the business of indulging his own whims, so who could fault him this time? Especially just a month out of prison, when he still couldn't get enough of the air and the sun and the sky.

The shop he went to was modern and sleek, expensive by the standards of the Old Resident District. He'd worked his way up high enough that money was no problem by then, though again, spending anything on himself was a rare indulgence. Or, actually, a thing that had never even happened once. He was known to pick food out of the trash to save money and time, so he wasn't sure what he hoped to find in a store like that. He didn't steal unless he had to, so he was just going to end up walking out empty-handed.

The shopkeeper didn't greet him, and a pack of high school kids squealed and darted out of his way, giggling. Nothing new; he preferred it that way. It kept nosy people at bay and got him to where he was going faster.

So he was alone when his feet carried him to aisle four (Flight-Capable Allmates). He'd seen a lot of bats around lately, and here there was a shelf of them in every color. And finches, canaries, and –

He frowned when he saw it: the most obscenely frilly cockatoo he'd ever laid eyes on, its feathers a violent enough shade of pink to match the ones he still wore himself.

He grabbed it off the shelf. No box, no manual, just the display model. Which looked a little weathered, but he liked it that way.

“You're coming with me, bird,” he muttered, and looked up to see the high schoolers staring at him, wide-eyed.

When they scattered again, he scanned their eyes to catch any sign of his sister's mischief shining in them, but found only fear.

His birthday comes around again not too long after his work is done. Aoba seems to have figured out the date; Aoba knows things, sometimes, in a way that reminds Mink of his sister. Although, in this case, it's probably more likely that the maniac got into the prison records and found everything they had on him.

Aoba promised that he wouldn't let anyone make a big deal out of it. Then, in the same breath, he'd invited Mink to a party at his grandmother's house on the same evening.

Mink is not sure why he keeps answering Aoba's calls, let alone taking him up on his invitations.

But he shows up at Tae-san's door that evening anyway, with gifts it took him an embarrassingly long time to select: a bottle of imported wine, and a large box of chocolate-covered blueberries that made him think of Aoba.

“Don't break down the door,” Tae-san calls as he knocks. When she lets him in, she looks him over with an unimpressed expression that does not soften as she accepts the gifts. Then she reminds him twice where and how to take off his shoes, points him toward the living room where everyone else is talking loudly, and strides off wearing a frown.

Mink likes her, very much.

He stands silently in the living room door for a while, watching Noiz play a video game that involves waving a controller around in a manner that could be meant to imitate either fighting or dancing. Aoba sits on the arm of the couch, watching too. Koujaku is attempting to play against Noiz, but keeps insisting that his controller must be broken, or he'd be doing much better, really. Then Clear takes his place as the second player, and as far as Mink can tell, he beats Noiz's high score on his first attempt.

Mink's not really following what's going on, but he watches anyway. A scene like this once would have evoked disgust in him. They're well-fed and warm, in a clean house, among people who care for them. They're able to relax and play games and leave the rest to the future.

They're all so young. Even Koujaku, who is by far the oldest among them, is years younger than Mink's sister would be, had she lived.

But knowing what he knows now, Mink wouldn't call any one of them lucky. He's just glad, in his own way, that they're able to find solace like this.

Clear is the first to notice him. He comes flying over in a rush. “Mink-san! You came! Are you disgusted by my face, Mink-san?”

“No.” This is at least the tenth time Mink has been asked this since Clear stopped wearing that gas mask, and he still hasn't forgiven Aoba for letting Clear have his Coil number.

“Mink-san is so kind!” Then Clear leans in to whisper to him. “Did you know that it's your birthday? It's a secret, though, so please be careful not to tell!”

“Is that so,” Mink says, unable to help glaring directly at Aoba.

Aoba rushes over to grab Clear's arm and shoo him away. “Mink,” he says quickly, “I'm sorry – ”

“It's fine,” Mink says, and it is. More than anything, he's annoyed that he can't sit back and watch them all any longer.

“Best two out of three,” Noiz calls to Clear. Then he raises a hand to Mink. “Don't think you're getting out of playing me, either. If the old man can do it, so can you.”

Koujaku ignores the remark with evident great effort, and nods slightly to Mink in greeting. His face reddens a bit when Beni, who is perched on his shoulder, calls out to Mink, “Oi, where's the bird?”

“Not here,” Mink says. He'd left Tori at home specifically to avoid a confrontation between those two. He's starting to wonder if Tori needs a better name, though. He doesn't like the way it sounds coming out of someone else's mouth.

“Mink,” Aoba says again, more urgently this time. He touches Mink's shoulder lightly. “There's something I wanted to ask you about. But – maybe not here.”

Mink glances toward the front door, and Aoba nods. Noiz and Clear are wrapped up in their game again (“Okay, this is so biased toward androids”) and Koujaku is trying not to stare after them, which Mink ignores. Aoba can make his own choices about who to walk with and speak with.

“Dinner's in an hour, so don't be long!” Tae-san calls from the kitchen. “If you're not home by then, I'm kicking the rest of these brats out.”

“Yes, Granny,” Aoba squeaks a little worriedly. Then he slips into his shoes and pulls Mink out the door before anything more can stop them.

Outside, under the stars, Mink gets a good look at Aoba for what feels like the first time in a very long while. He's wearing his favorite shirt, but not his jacket. He looks healthier, though it could just be the smile. His hair is pulled back in a loose, messy ponytail, and Mink can't help but think of how good it would look with braids.

“Walk with me?” Aoba asks.

Mink follows him down breezy streets. He hears it doesn't really snow in Midorijima like it does back home, but even now, the humid air feels chilly. While he can, he appreciates the way the gentle wind carries the smell of the ocean to them. One way or another, he doubts he'll be here long enough to watch winter set in.

There aren't many people out in this corner of the neighborhood. He watches his and Aoba's shadows lengthen and twist when they walk past streetlights, and he listens to the sound of their matching strides on the sidewalk. It's peaceful enough that he could walk all night like this. Maybe he will, once he leaves the party, but he can't shake the sense that it won't be quite the same without Aoba at his side.

“What must you think of me?” Aoba asks suddenly then, with a nervous laugh.

Mink glances at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know. The – the way I live now.”

“With your grandmother?”

“Well. And Clear. And the nights I sleep over at Koujaku's place, if you count that, and I guess Noiz stays over there too...”

Aoba trails off. Mink knows what he means. They're all involved with each other now, in one way or another. If Clear hadn't told him about it directly (at four in the morning, because he thought it somehow appropriate to contact Mink when everyone else he knew was asleep), he'd have been able to read it on their faces. It's not the first time Mink has heard of such an arrangement.

“Is that how you want it?” Mink asks.

Aoba looks surprised. “I never really thought about it. But...” He doesn't hesitate long. He meets Mink's eyes briefly. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Then it's no one's place to judge you.” Mink thinks of the way those who've experienced trauma side by side tend to form unique bonds. They're bonds that can work for you or against you, but invariably, irrevocably, they tie you to one another. It's why he never let himself learn anything personal about the members of Scratch.

“Can that be all there is to it?” Aoba asks.

Mink doesn't answer. He's offered his input, and it's up to Aoba to decide the rest for himself.

Their path takes them to the outskirts of town. Mink has never been this way before, so he's not sure if it was always so pleasant. The houses grow bigger and further apart, and new young trees are roped to stakes and growing down each side of the street. Aoba leads the way into a park, where Mink has to duck beneath an arched wooden trellis woven through with sweet-smelling jasmine. There's a pond nearby, where cicadas crouch hidden in the rushes and in the trees. Far off is a playground, where a few children still shriek and play even after sundown.

Aoba settles down into a soft patch of grass near the water, and Mink sits with him.

“We can go if you mosquitoes bother you,” Aoba says.

“It's no problem,” Mink replies.

Aoba puts his hands in his lap and looks out over the water. The moon is half full tonight, and its reflection shines down in the ripples. “You know how Granny is on the new city council now, right?”

Mink nods. He's heard Tae and a few of her friends were among the first to step up and help both the Old Resident District and the displaced community of Platinum Jail get back on their feet. He found out through Noiz, who sent him local news articles every few days along with messages like Figured you might want to see what we accomplished without having to crawl out of your hole.

“Now that things have calmed down,” Aoba continues, “she's working on putting together a memorial for those who died while we were fighting to get free.”

His mind immediately jumps to Aoba's brother, Sei. Though his body was never found, he was thought to be dead. He'd wanted to die. That was the effect Toue had on you. Mink knows now that Sei was the one who brought the few remaining mementos of his family back to him that day. He touches one of his bracelets and says, “That's a kind gesture.”

“So.” Aoba glances up. “Granny wanted me to ask you something.”

He looks at Aoba too, knowing what's coming, unable to begin to process it.

“She needs the names of those who lived in your village. As many as you remember, at least.”

Mink had thought the waking nightmares were over, but one flashes over him. Bright orange glow, and the echo of a scream. He closes his eyes and breathes in, concentrating on smelling the jasmine-laced evening air around him rather than the memory of smoke and ash.

Aoba's hand slips into his, and he lets himself hold it tight.

“I remember every one of them,” Mink says.

Neither of them speaks for a while. The night deepens, and the voices of the playing children fade.

“Mink?” Aoba says in a tiny voice. “I know it isn't my business. But...they were more than just names to you, weren't they? So if you ever wanted to talk about them...”

Mink can't see Aoba clearly, but he squeezes his hand, which is soft and warm and very small. They are more than just names, and perhaps one day he will talk. But he hasn't got the strength for it yet, and he won't have Aoba trying to bear all his weight.

“We should get back,” Mink says, “Before your grandmother follows through on her word and kicks the others out. I'll speak to her about her request tomorrow.”

Mink starts to untwine his fingers from Aoba's, but Aoba holds on with surprising persistence. “Wait. There was something I wanted to ask you, too.”

He gives up and lets Aoba keep his hand. “What is it?”

“Just...” Aoba hesitates, fidgeting with everything from the headphones around his neck to the weeds in the grass. “You don't have to be so far away. I know you don't really like me or any of my friends, but I want to be close to you. In...in all the ways I am with them. If you wanted it, too.”

Mink gazes at Aoba. Just a silhouette in the dark, if a delicately formed one. How he has retained such optimism, Mink will never know.

Mink remembers wanting to use Aoba at first, even if it hurt or killed him. Treating Aoba, and the other part of Aoba, the way Toue treated his experiments. Mink doesn't think he'll ever know how many others he irrevocably damaged with his own hands along his way to revenge, but he was content in understanding that his actions made him irredeemable. And now here is Aoba, trying to tell him otherwise.

He should have found a way to die or leave the island before it came to this. He shouldn't have given in to the temptation of staying in touch with Aoba at all.

Mink sighs and starts to get up. “We should go back.”

This time, reluctantly, Aoba lets go.

It takes weeks. And in those weeks, Mink comes to realize that Seragaki Aoba is the absolute most reckless, willful, stubborn, frustrating individual he's ever had the pleasure of letting into his life, with a remarkably low sense of self-preservation to boot.

But, looking back, it's nothing Mink didn't already know.

He understands that he's letting himself be pulled in. He understands what it will lead to if he keeps meeting Aoba by the pond and talking with him there, or sitting together in surprisingly comfortable silence as the sun goes down.

Midorijima sunsets aren't like the ones back home. They're streaked with cool colors, shades of violet and blue layered with the pink. The sight makes him want to buy or paint a similar set of beads, but he doubts there's anywhere to get the correct supplies around here.

Instead he settles for showing Aoba, after countless eager requests, how he braids his feathers into his hair. He shouldn't wonder how this leads to braiding Aoba's hair for him. Not in quite the same style he does his own – that wouldn't feel right, not yet – but he uses the same techniques to weave in brightly colored feathers, some from Beni and some from Tori. After his first attempt he thinks he may end up having to work with Koujaku to get it to look right, but Aoba is so pleased with the result that he practically preens.

And Mink starts to tell stories now and then. He tells Tae that they didn't wear shoes inside his home, either, and respectfully bears her ensuing wrath. He tells Koujaku once, when he's asking for a light, the name of the relative who gave him his pipe. He's putting down roots, one slip of the tongue after another.

Aoba is the only one who doesn't know better than to ask to hear more, and Aoba is the only one he's willing to indulge. Mink lets information out when he doesn't feel like it will leave a hole in him. This was the name of the neighbors' goat; this was the river where we swam; this was what we ate for breakfast on holiday mornings.

On the night when Aoba sits closer than before, puts an arm around him and turns his head in a way that almost forces their lips to brush, Mink thinks to himself: This was what we did when we realized that we were in love.

He eases Aoba down on his back in the soft grass at the edge of the pond. He trails his lips over Aoba's neck, not caring who else does this or how often.

He asks, “Is this okay?”

Aoba doesn't just nod. He pulls him down.

Mink takes his time, kissing Aoba on his mouth, ears, lips, throat, hair, as if enough kisses can heal all their pain, or erase the past they have between them. He puts his hands on Aoba, underneath his shirt, and when it goes far enough he leads Aoba back to his apartment to his bed, to shed all of their clothes and fall into him completely.

Aoba holds back nothing in bed. He moans shamelessly; he can't get enough. At first he's shy to show his body off, but once he's been naked in Mink's lap for a few minutes, he's over it. He stretches out, exposes himself to the air, and tells Mink to look, and to see him.

Afterward, when they're both recovering in each others' arms, feeling shakier than Mink thought they'd be, it occurs to Mink that he's content. Perhaps not delighted or happy, but he doesn't feel like he needs to be on the move. For now, he needs to be here, quietly present, with Aoba.

Aoba, who isn't his whole life, but who has somehow – like those who Mink has always loved the most – squirmed his way into being a big part of it, and brought all his passion and mess and clutter along.

He guesses he'll stick around to see his next birthday, at this rate.

#minkweek #mink week #mink (dmmd)#minao #a million little gods #my dick is also confused

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