#sil.pdf

[cynamonowo]

10k, a&b route spoilers, Not Happy At All, ao3

happy birthday do-yoon! you're getting put in the blender <3

next chapter drops in the notes ✌️

[cynamonowo]

ahurt/comfort, 1.9k, ao3

written for @sobriquetfish for the aivember secret santa :3 aiber moments abound

[cynamonowo]

2k, show ended/true end spoilers, Disastrous Vibes

this is what happens when i can't find any proper heart-wrenching fics from this particular scenario & end up writing shit myself lmao

[cynamonowo]

60 for aitsf? maybe with date and mizuki but i'm happy with anything that strikes your fancy :-)

ough it took a while but. here we go besties i ended up making this a sort of a sequel to a certain fic of mine i posted in november ;3 hope ya enjoy (endgame spoilers)

60. “Happy birthday.”

***

Whenever Mizuki would stop by Marble, either to chat with Mama or pick up Date, she’d find the place to be a time capsule. Always the same music, the same decor. The cloying scent of Mama’s perfumes and alcohol, drilling itself into her nostrils, the cigarette smoke soaking into her clothes, rows and rows of bottles with loud labels. She sits by the bar, crossing her legs and demurely lying her hands on the counter.

“Ah, Miss Mizuki!” Appearing from the backroom, Mama beams at her, clasping her palms together. “It’s been a while!”

Mizuki laughs awkwardly. “Good evening, Mama. It’s nice to see you.”

“Such a polite young woman, you. You must be, ah, twenty now, right? My, haven’t you grown… Makes a woman like me feel old.”

“Uh, yeah, I actually turn twenty in-” she checks her watch “-ten minutes?”

Clicking her tongue, Mama shakes her head. “And you’re not out there partying with your friends instead of coming by here?”

“Actually,” Mizuki says, scratching her nose, “I’m here to meet with Date.” 

"Oh, yes, he did mention you've left the nest! How the time passes…"

She moved out a few months ago, staying at the dorms close by the campus, nominally to shorten the drive there - but mostly because of his insisting they can’t be living while attached at the hip. She can tell it was his therapist’s suggestion, though, and quietly disagrees. Her roommates are okay, they don’t bother her too much, but - no one steals her pudding. No one talks to themself for hours on end. She shouldn’t miss it. She does. 

Her own therapist says she doesn’t do well with change - what a surprise. After the events of eight years ago and the ensuing pandemic-caused two years of basically not leaving the house, Mizuki finds herself, paradoxically, longing for the tableau of every day being the same. No surprises. No changes. Waking up, school, therapy, spending time with Date, going to sleep. Ordering groceries online, cooking the same things every week, not having to deal with stores full of bright lights and loud advertisements, people bumping into her as they mill around. The first few times they left the house after lockdown, either she had a meltdown or Date would get that empty look on his face when stuff got overwhelming; he couldn’t speak more than three words at a time for hours. Despite being a teenager, she would hold onto his hand or clothes, his gaze constantly flicking to her with worry. Once, his concern would annoy her. Then - it was normal. It was their normal, pieced together from the fragments after the storm. Who cares if it wasn’t too healthy? It was ugly and patchy and theirs. It was paid for in blood and death. 

Well. At least she no longer wishes it was her death. That’s progress. 

“Oh, he hasn’t been here for a few weeks now,” Mama says, unaware of the turmoil inside Mizuki’s head. “Such a shame, but I’m not too surprised.”

“Mm?”

“What happened with Ren, Shoko, and the others…” Mama’s expression grows more serious. “I still can’t believe his own boss would do that! I met her, you know? She seemed like such a sweet woman who cared so deeply about Date, yet she went and did this! And your parents, Mizuki! How could someone do that?!”

Biting her tongue, Mizuki nods. It’s okay. Mama doesn’t know the truth. Only four people in the entire world know. Saito’s dead anyway. It’s over. It’s been over for almost a decade now. Her hands curl, nails digging into the soft flesh.

“I know,” she says, quiet, hoarse. Mama pats her on the wrist, then turns to the entrance as the door opens.

“Oh hello honey!”

“Hi, Mama, hi, Mizuki.” Taking a seat by her side, Date pulls her for a quick side-hug. “Nice haircut.”

Grinning, Mizuki rubs the shaved part of her head. “You could take a page out of my book, y’know?”

“Are we having this conversation again?” Date sighs. 

“You do look quite girlish, sweetheart,” Mama chimes in, innocent. Mizuki reaches to tug on Date’s hair, today kept under control in a messy braid. During the lockdown, both of them stopped caring about their appearances, and it seems a part of that mindset still remains with him, considering he has let his hair grow out again. It’s likely he’ll chop it off one day with kitchen shears whenever he gets pissy about washing it again. What a nerd.

Mizuki sobers a little. The aftermath of Saito’s string of murders was tough on everyone involved, the quarantine not helping in the slightest. She’d have nightmares every other day, ones that would yank her out of sleep and have her throw up on the floor. Seeing raw meat would cause her hands to tremble. All of her classmates slowly grew distant, first offering insipid condolences, then ghosting her on NILE after graduation. In middle school, the online classes prevented them from forming closer bonds, even after they met up in person. Not like Mizuki was going out of her way to befriend them, preferring to sit by herself with a book. High school was much the same - no clubs, no extra activities, blowing off anyone who tried to chat with her. She’d come home right after classes and hang out with Date, watching TV or playing video games. With So Sejima’s money inherited, he quit his job at the MPD after a year of medical leave. Her skin crawls when she remembers the reason, the blood on the bathroom tiles, the thick scars running up the inside of his forearms, how his voice cracked when he told her the deaths were his fault. The lines of pill bottles, reminders on her phone for both of them to take their meds. Therapy has helped, yeah, but till she moved out, they’d spend a lot of time glued to each other’s side, Mizuki’s head on Date’s shoulder, his arm around her, spending the anniversaries cuddled on the couch, eating shitty junk food and barely talking. Once, Pewter came by, after he took over ABIS, and he and Date had a quiet conversation, one Mizuki did not even try to eavesdrop on. The floor by the trashcan ended up littered with empty beer bottles, Pewter sleeping over on a pullout mattress, thanking Date in the morning, giving Mizuki a faint smile. The only survivors. Each day a fight, more or less exhausting. And this is her victory. This is the sliver of life she carved out of this wrong end of the tunnel.

She checks her phone. Seven more minutes. Leaning against Date, she passively listens to his chat with Mama, puns, innuendo, et cetera. This time, it doesn’t seem like he has no heart for it. Good. She’s happy for him, even though the jokes are disgusting.

When there’s a pause, she horns in. “By the way, why did you want to meet with me here?”

“You really don’t know?” Date gives her a look. “Kid, your first drink should be under adult supervision.”

“So… you told me to come to Marble just before midnight, just because you want to have a drink with me.” Mizuki wrinkles her nose. “That’s so on brand, dude.”

"And yet you're still here," he points out. "C'mon, don't say you're going to bail on me."

"Can't have Mama dealing with your crap by herself." She sighs. In a more joking tone, she adds, "At least say you've got me a nice gift, old man."

"Hey, I'm not even forty, that's not old," Date bites back, but as soon as the words leave his mouth his expression sours. Right. Were he in the original body, he'd be around fifty, right? Mizuki brushes her fingertips over his wrist; he looks away, grimacing. Mama gazes at them, thick brows furrowing, before flapping her hand, clearly unwilling to know more than she needs to.

"Mizuki, honey, in this case let me know what sort of drink you want to take your alcohol virginity," she drawls out, salacious. 

"How vulgar," Date says to himself. Mama rolls her eyes.

"She's almost twenty! She can handle such talk!"

"Still. Gross. That's my daughter you're talking about." Shaking his head, he leans back in his chair. "There's still six minutes left till she's officially an adult, so for now give us two waters, Mama."

"Still a stickler for rules," Mama says wistfully but does as asked. When she hands Mizuki her glass, she says conspiratorially, her voice a theatrical whisper, "Don't worry about him, sweetie, I gave you some vodka."

"Liar," Date murmurs as Mizuki sniffs the clear liquid. "I may not be a cop anymore, but you're still not going to risk losing your license."

He's right. It is just water. Mizuki giggles into her hand, and Date throws her the told-you-so glance. She elbows him, and he smirks before passing her an earpiece.  The door opens to let in another client, Mama instantly moving to tend to him. The earbud in, Mizuki rests her cheek on her hand to muffle her voice, Date mirroring her. 

"Good evening, Mizuki," Aiba says. "I would wish you a happy birthday but we still have a few minutes to go."

"Hi, Aiba," Mizuki murmurs, unable to hide her grin. "How are you doing? Date not pissing you off too bad?"

"I'm still here, y'know," Date mutters with a pout. Mizuki throws him her brattiest eye roll. 

"I'm talking to Aiba, dummy. Don't interrupt."

"Hey, she's in my skull, how do you expect me to tune you two out?"

Despite no longer being an ABIS agent, he got to keep Aiba after a lot of whining on all sides. After she refused to work with another cop and Pewter got very offended at the idea of reprogramming her to remedy that, Aiba was officially classified as a disability aid so Date could have her. Mizuki is pretty sure there was some bribery involved, but does not ask. With how much money So left him, Date has replaced his audio system and sofa (what a dork) before donating a good chunk to charity. So must be rolling in his grave. 

Well. In Iris's grave. The body they buried in pouring November rain was inhabited by Boss, if only for a few minutes. In her body was Saito. In Daddy's, Iris. And Mom was dead for a year without anyone knowing. Mizuki did not suspect a thing, with Mom acting just as usual, cold and distant, complaining about her daughter's appearance and behavior dripping down her tongue like blood. She never smiled. She also never hit her the few times she and Mizuki saw each other. Granted, Mizuki would have told Date and he'd make good on his threats to report her for child abuse, and that'd ruin Saito's plan. But maybe if he lost control… Maybe if he played his role too well, no one else would have to die. Mizuki would gladly trade a few slaps and pushes and punches for not having to attend a multitude of funerals, not having to find her guardian half dead in their own bathroom, not having to pretend, for years and years, wishing for a different future, cursing herself for being a stupid child, stupid, blind kid who didn't know anything, isn't worth anything-

"Mizuki," Aiba says softly. "Are you alright?"

"You've been staring at nothing for a while now," Date adds, placing his hand on her back. Mizuki meets his eyes and smiles grimly.

"Got lost in thoughts," she says. "It's okay, though."

"Really?"

"Yup. Don't worry, old man." This time, she can muster up a better smile. "It is what it is."

"Hm," Aiba says, clearly not convinced, but doesn't push the matter. "In any case, I hope you are doing well, Mizuki."

She cringes. "Yeah, more or less? Today my roommate woke me up at five in the morning because she started blasting some eighties pop to, uh, get pumped up for the day. I almost had a heart attack."

"At least she has good taste," says Date, and Mizuki makes a face at him, remembering all those days she'd come home from school and find him lying facedown on the floor, listening to disco - which he'd call his "me time". Mizuki thinks he's full of shit. 

"If only I wasn't subjected to it before a coffee," she grumbles. "I had, like, three today."

"That's quite a lot," Aiba says. "Please ensure you consume enough magnesium to make up for what the caffeine has washed out of your system." 

"Sure, Mom." 

"Hey, she's worried," Date says with a pointed look. "Who the hell knows what kind of shit you're gonna pull when unsupervised?"

"Takes one to know one!"

"Like father, like daughter," Aiba adds cheerfully, and Date looks like he's considering violence. Mizuki giggles at him. 

"I like to think I'm smarter than him," she says, to Aiba's hum of approval.

"Very much so." With less levity, she says, "Truth of the matter is, both of us quite miss you, Mizuki, although Date will never admit to that."

"Because that's not true?" He doesn't sound convincing in the slightest, and Aiba sighs. 

"Aw, I know you love me, old man," Mizuki chirps out. 

"Whatever."

"So tsundere." It's easy to imagine Aiba shaking her head. "In any case, there's less than two minutes before midnight."

"Time to say goodbye to teenagehood," Mizuki says, morose. "At least I can drink now."

"Speaking of." Date waves at Mama, beckoning her back to the bar from where she's been flirting with the other customer. She groans but comes back, flashing them a coyish look.

"What can I get you two now?" 

"A beer for me," Date orders with confidence, "and something the kid’s gonna like.”

"Hm." Mama peers at Mizuki, calculating. "A cocktail would suit such an inexperienced palate… Perhaps a mojito?"

"Sounds good," Mizuki says with a shrug. "It's kinda like lemonade, right?” 

Belying her shape, Mama moves quick and with certainty, mixing the drink with steady hands and a bit of flourish in her pours. A bottle of rum, another of syrup, a mint leaf and a thin slice of lime, cut with one sharp flick of the knife. Mizuki watches with amazement; by the time the two glasses are placed in front of them, Aiba says,

“It’s midnight. Happy birthday, Mizuki.”

“Happy birthday, kiddo,” Date adds, raising his glass with a grin. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

Mizuki shakes her head with exasperation, but as she clinks her glass against his, she can’t help but smile back. “Thanks, old man.” She takes an experimental sip, and her brows jump up in shock. “Whoa.”

“You like it?”

“Mhm! It is kinda like lemonade.” Nice and sour, with a hint of freshness from the mint, something deeper in the background, probably the alcohol. It’s nice. She can understand why Date wanted her to have some. This is kind of - pleasant, drinking with her father, everything making sense now.

Granted, she thought that’d happen with her biological dad, but she’s made peace with that. Well. Mostly. Yeah, his death is a scar on the back of her thoughts, yet it’s come far from being the gaping wound. When she imagines Iris, Ota, maybe even Miss Hitomi celebrating this day alongside Date, the flood of possibilities that scenario opens up is one she can control. Not getting swept up, drowned, unable to breathe. A crying kid, grieving, hurting so much she thought it’d kill her. And - she’s going to visit their resting places later, like on every birthday, every special moment. Just because they’re all dead doesn’t mean they’re no longer a vital part of her life. More than a bittersweet memory, less than a ghost, something in the gray zone. An illness she can learn to carry for the rest of her life.

“You okay?” Date snaps his fingers in front of her face. “Spacing out again.”

“Yeah,” Mizuki says, and her voice is strong and sure and warm like a hug or a cup of tea. “I’m alright.”

Pausing, Date gazes at her, then nods. His tone, albeit jokey, is just as kind when he says, “Want to try my beer?”

“Hell yeah!” She swipes it from his grip and, without thinking, takes a long gulp - one she barely manages not to spit out. “Ough.”

“Thought so.” He smirks. “You’ve still got a lot to learn.”

“Hey, at least you don’t have to worry I’ll steal your gross beer,” Mizuki says, scraping her tongue over her teeth to get rid of the taste. Bleh, so bitter and powerful. Is this what adults like? No, wait, she’s an adult as well now. Shit. “I’ve got taste, unlike someone else.”

“That’s why you love me so much,” Date boasts, and she punches him in the arm. Lovingly, duh. “Hey, what was that for?”

“For being a stupid fu-”

“Now, you two,” Mama interjects. “Take your ribbing somewhere else, you're scaring away my customers."

“Sorry Mama,” they say in unison. She gives them an amiable look.

“Like father, like daughter, hm? Oh, don’t stare at me like that, you know I’m correct!”

“Strange minds think alike,” Mizuki says under her nose.

“I take offense to that,” says Aiba. 

“No, you don’t.”

“I will electrocute you, Date.”

“No, you won’t,” says Mizuki, and Aiba groans in defeat. 

They don’t leave Marble until closing time. When Mizuki’s Uber arrives, the driver honks the horn at her because she finds it hard to break the hug with Date, his palm against the back of her head and her eyes hidden in his shoulder. If she tears up, he doesn’t mention it. If she notices a shine in his good eye, she doesn’t say a word. It’s alright. They’re alright. This is the ending they’ve come to accept. 

She’s twenty years old, and the future opens wide, endless, beautifully neutral.

[cynamonowo]

31 datomi <3

sparrow you enable me so badly but hey thanks for the excuse to write more awkward parents romance :3

prompt list

-

Most days, going on with his life despite, as Mizuki’d call it, The Everything, comes to Date with ease. Wake up, send Mizuki off to school, go to work, charge Aiba, have dinner either at home or with Sagans. Easy-peasy. He’s forty-three, almost forty-four, this shit ain’t nothing new. 

But — here’s the thing. He’s forty-three. Remembers thirty-six years. Less than two years ago, he was thirty. Twelve years, six years, months and days and moments lost. Things he could have done, people he could have met, countless joys and sorrows and pieces of life — gone. Stolen. How is that fair? How is he supposed to make that up? How old is he even supposed to feel? It’s wrong. It’s not just. It’s the good intentions pavement. It's his life as a vortex, a powerful wave sweeping him off his feet, drowning him in time until he can't tell up from down. 

Needless to say, Date is not having a good day. As soon as the door closes after Mizuki, he calls in to work and bullshits to Boss; when she begrudgingly grants him the day off, he flops back onto the couch, face buried in the pillow. Aiba sighs into their connection.

"What?" he mumbles. 

"Both of us know that 'a flu or some shit like that,'" she quotes him, "is not the true reason for your current state."

Date rolls his eye. "Thanks for stating the obvious. Now can you text Hitomi and tell her I won't be coming?"

A pause. Aiba radiates the aura of disapproval without saying a word, hell, without a way to have a facial expression. Goddamn miracle of engineering, this one. Flipping onto his back, arm draped over his eyes, Date sniffles sadly and cringes. He oughta take a shower. Getting up and actually doing shit, however, seems like a herculean effort when the sludge-like exhaustion seeps into his bones and turns his brain into sewage. The cause of it all? Hell if he knows. Usually, he can pinpoint the underlying trigger — a tough case, the New Years fireworks, a particular day in November — but it sometimes just drops on him without a clear justification. Everything is fine, he's doing fine, work isn't more stressful than usual, Mizuki and Hitomi and Iris are all okay and happy — and yet. This shouldn’t be happening. The thoughts cloud this logic, still and all, and stain his mind, leaving an acrid taste on his tongue. Jesus. It’s like puberty again, with the moodiness and all that shit. Not that Date remembers being that age. Not all of his memories have returned, now probably forever wiped out, and boy does that realization make him feel so much better. Ugh.

“There are proper, mature ways to deal with such situations,” Aiba states calmly. It takes a few seconds for him to realize she must be referring to his request. 

“Yeah, I know. Just… I know.” He sighs. “Just do it, Aiba.”

After a moment of silence, she says, “Confirmed. I shall let Hitomi know. How many details do you wish me to include?”

“Your call.” He pulls the blanket over his face. 

After Aiba tells him she’s done, Date stews in silence for a moment, attempting to grasp onto the thread of exhaustion before giving up, the raging thoughts distracting him from falling back asleep. He ends up asking Aiba to first play some music, but when that proves too annoying (seriously, what is wrong with him, that’s jazz, he loves it), he settles on a podcast about natural history or some crap like that. The producer’s smooth voice, as he talks about the Galapagos islands, is captivating and soothing enough his consciousness drifts away. Thankfully, there are no dreams. No nightmares. Only blessed calm. 

The doorbell ringing is what wakes him up. Still dozy, Date tries standing up without realizing how tangled up he’s gotten, the sheets wrapped tight and causing him to faceplant. Ouch. He cringes before wriggling out of the cocoon and, a blanket still draped over him, approaches the door with confusion. Did Mizuki lose her keys? No, she was supposed to go spend time with her school friends after classes, and — a quick glance at the clock — it’s too early for her to be back. 

“Aiba?” Date asks warily. During his nap, she left his eye socket and curled up on the coffee table. Her expression remains unreadable.

“Don’t worry,” she says serenely. “Just let her inside.”

Her? He opens the door and — oh. Oh dear.

“Good afternoon,” Hitomi says, a small smile on her lips. “Hope I’m not a bother.”

“Hell no.” 

“Mm.” She tilts her head, studying him. “I’ve heard you’re unwell.”

Uh oh. Nervously tugging at the corner of the blanket still hung over his shoulders, Date tries to laugh. “Uh. Hi. I, I guess that’s true?” He moves aside, inviting her with a gesture. She gives him another smile, slipping off her shoes, and sets a tote on the kitchen worktop.

Turning to him, Hitomi furrows her brows and steps closer to him, the sharp gaze returning as she reaches, slow, to push a few strands of hair off his face. If she notices how much they’re in need of a wash, she doesn’t comment on it, resting her hand on his cheek. Date can’t help but lean into it. It’s — good. Almost too good. Not what he deserves.

As if reading his thoughts, Hitomi says, quiet and soft, “I truly hope me stopping by is not an inconvenience.” 

He shakes his head vigorously, but stays silent. Seeing her — it’s weird. The memories of joy, the sheer need to see her happiness, the way his chest feels lighter upon meeting her eyes, it all clashes with the guilt. And, god, isn’t it pathetic? He spent the day feeling sorry for himself, yet here’s the person hurt the most by the past, who almost died twice because of him. First the Rohan fuckup, then Saito. How can she even look at Date with so much kindness in her expression? Why does she want to spend time with him? Where’s the anger he deserves, the comeuppance, the damn well-warranted revenge? She’s too good for him. She should know better. But here she is, concerned for him because he canceled their dinner together. Only two of them. Not the first time they’d met up like that, and it’s clear she’s interested in him despite the — ugliness. The warped, dark things, wound up tight around him like vines; the scar on her shoulder, the traces of Saito still kicking around in the back of Date’s mind. It makes no fucking sense.

“Sorry,” is what he ends up saying. “You — didn’t have to come. I’m glad, of course, but I’ll be okay. Apologies for troubling you.”

Hitomi clicks her tongue, still frowning. “Don’t worry about me. I can clearly see you aren’t doing alright, so it’d be my pleasure to help. Plus,” and she grins, bright, mischievous, “if I didn’t come, you probably would forget to eat anything, would you not?”

The mood lightened, Date laughs sheepishly. “That’s true.”

“Excuse me,” Aiba pipes up, “I would remind him.”

“Hello, Aiba.” Hitomi waves to her before pulling a full tupperware out of the tote. Its contents look… pretty appetizing. “Thank you for the call.”

“You told her?” Date asks, glaring at Aiba. She stares back, unimpressed.

“Of course. I told Hitomi you are unwell, therefore she asked to stop by. According to my calculations, were it not for human contact, you would be in a much worse state, which goes against my directives.”

Ugh. Betrayed on all fronts. But… Aiba ain’t wrong. Observing Hitomi bustling about in the kitchen, heating up the stir-fry she brought while humming to herself, quells the turmoil tugging at his mind. He takes the plate she hands him, their fingers brushing. The food smells heavenly. As they eat, sitting next to each other on the sofa, shoulders touching, the conversation is flowing easy like a mountain river, and it distracts Date from the bout of glumness like a charm. Hitomi nudges him, eyes crinkling in a smile, when he’s washing the dishes, and tells him to take a bath, her voice joking but affectionate. He cracks a joke about her helping him out, and she swats him, laughing, despite the redness blooming high on her cheekbones. The scent of spices hangs in the air, late afternoon sun pouring orange into the space, and, even though the noxious mix of grief and guilt still pulses in his veins and thoughts, enduring it becomes feasible. Mizuki comes back at one point, overjoyed to see Hitomi. All three of them watch a movie she picked. At one point, Hitomi sneaks her hand into Date’s. He glances at her and smiles back.

***

The living room is a mess. 

“Mizuki,” Date says disapprovingly, taking in the sight of notebooks, snack bags, and other teenage girl paraphernalia. Said teenager flips him off, not taking her eyes off the college prep book she’s thumbing through.

“Wasn’t me,” she shoots back. “I blame the cats.”

“You always blame the cats,” Date counters, taking off his shoes. Hitomi’s coat is not on the rack, so she must still be out. He sucks in air through his teeth, considering. “Okay, how about we clean this shit up?”

Mizuki groans. “Ugh, whatever.” She shuts the book, nose wrinkled in disgust. “My brain’s about to melt anyway, so why not.”

“What brain?” He promptly ducks, and the book hits the wall. “Hey!”

“Mizuki,” Aiba says out loud, “it’d be easier to accomplish this task if you did not kill Date.”

“I wouldn’t kill him, I’d just…” She shrugs. “Mildly give him serious injuries?”

“That sounds kinda contradictory,” Date says tiredly. “C’mon, hop to it.”

She rolls her eyes, but gets up and gets to it. The cats scramble into the play tower as soon as the vacuum cleaner makes the appearance, ogling it apprehensively from their vantage point. Date takes a moment to point and laugh. Mizuki responds with a swift kick to his shin before throwing a trash bag at him. While the rubbish slowly disappears, they keep bickering, Mizuki threatening to throw out his mags while he scolds her for not brushing the cats enough as he picks clumps of fur off his pants. Thrown into the familiar rhythm of chores punctuated by giving each other shit, they move on from sprucing up the space to doing the laundry and cooking dinner, the inertia lasting enough they even prep bento boxes for all three of them and organize the spice shelf. Aiba, perched on top of Mizuki’s head, never misses a chance to point out a stain Date’s missed. He bitches at her but does as told. When they’re done, sprawled out in front of the TV with joysticks in hand, Hitomi’s still nowhere to be seen.

Sighing, Date gazes at the calendar. October 27th. She must still be at the cemetery.

In the end, she comes back around nine in the evening, when Mizuki’s already skulked away to her bedroom to do more reading. Hearing the lock open, Date all but sprints there, nearly vibrating in place as Hitomi closes the door after herself. Her face is tight, eyes a touch red, but she accepts the welcome kiss with a faint smile. 

“Good to see you,” she murmurs, allowing him to help her with her jacket.

“Right back at you.” He sets her purse down; after she’s taken off her shoes and peeked into Mizuki’s room to say hi, Hitomi sits on the sofa, legs pulled to her chest, and leans into Date, his arm wrapped around her. They sit in silence, simply breathing, almost in sync. 

While both of them have a hard time in November, Hitomi always gets quieter as the anniversary of Manaka’s death approaches, just a few days before the one of, well, all the other bullshit both of them went through. The saving grace is Manaka finally getting a proper resting place. It’s close to Renju’s. Whenever they visit him, Hitomi stops by and prays without a word, fist clenched, body tight. Her killer may be dead, but the consequences of his actions live on, in how sometimes one of them wakes up screaming. How Mizuki barely talks during Father’s Day. How Date sporadically sees someone else in the mirror, someone with a green eye and a hungry expression, and has to shake himself off. Hitomi, being the smartest of their bunch, was quick to get a therapist afterward, but — it seems like some days, the ocean of anguish topples her over. In those moments, all Date can do is hold her, be beside her, and hope it’s enough. That he’s enough. Nope, not the moment to make this about himself. She trusts him enough to get back together with him, and this time he’s gonna do this thing right.

Letting out a shaky breath, Hitomi chuckles weakly. To Date’s questioning hum, she says, “Each year, I think my grief has ebbed just a bit more, with how anniversaries grow less painful — but then a memory hits just right. Just in the right spot.”

“I get it,” Date says, voice as soft as he can. “What was it this time?”

“Sunflowers.” Hitomi wipes at her eyes, her nose. “On my way back I noticed the flower shop near the convenience store, you know which one—”

“The one with those onigiris you like so much.”

“—yes, that one. And I saw a person leaving the shop with a bouquet of sunflowers. In the middle of autumn.” She laughs wetly. “One time, Manaka told me her boyfriend got her a single sunflower after one date, and it was wilting and soaking wet. It, it looked like he stole it from someone’s garden. She’d laugh and laugh, but I told her not to bother with that loser, and I, I thought she was dismissive, but they broke up, and the next person she dated…”

To that, Date has no other reply than to pull Hitomi closer until her tears are soaking into his shirt, her fingers grasping his sleeve. He strokes her hair mindlessly while his thoughts race. “I’m gonna murder So Sejima,” he says absently. Hitomi raps her fist against his chest.

“Don’t,” she mutters. “He isn’t worth your time, Kaname.”

“I’m gonna make So Sejima’s life much harder,” he amends. “Do you want Boss to help?” She shakes her head, so Date quietly resolves that, as soon as Sejima croaks, he’s gonna piss on his grave. That’ll show him.

“Don’t.” Waking up from her charging, Aiba levels him a disapproving gaze. “That’s desecrating a place of rest. Illegal, Date. Do you even know what that word means?”

“Shush, you.” Date scowls at her. “Be useful for once.”

“For on— Oh, nevermind. There’s hot chocolate in the second shelf from the left counting from the stove, I presume Hitomi would not mind a cup.”

“There you go.” Extracting himself with comforting shushes and a pat on her head, Date stretches out, frowning, and goes to grab two cups. “Cinnamon?”

“In the rack, right where you put it less than two hours ago.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Aiba hopping onto Hitomi’s knee.

Out loud, he says as he blasts the milk in the microwave, “My own eyeball is trying to steal my girlfriend. How would a romance advice columnist even reply to that?” That succeeds in making Hitomi laugh.

“Excuse me,” Aiba says, offended. “I would never.”

“Yeah, because you know I’d throw you to the cats,” Date retorts. Aiba deigns not to reply; Hitomi pets her head with a single fingertip, her expression lighter but still marred with exhaustion. One of the cats makes its way onto her lap. Despite the threats, it does not care for Aiba in the slightest, too focused on licking its own butt while purring. Date sighs. 

When the milk’s heated up and the chocolate’s mixed in, he takes the cups to the sofa, passing one over to Hitomi, who accepts it with a small nod. She takes in the smell and her eyes crinkle with a grin. 

“You remembered,” she says softly. “Thank you.”

“Eh, it’s nothing,” Date says with as much nonchalance he can muster up. “Least I could do for you.”

“Even so…” Hitomi’s shoulders droop. “I can’t imagine you find pleasure in seeing me in… this state.”

“Of course not.” She casts a questioning look, and Date shrugs, then sets his mug down and clasps Hitomi’s good hand between both of his. “Shit, it sucks that I can’t fix this, but, hey, don’t worry about me. This isn’t your fault.”

“I know.” She meets his eye, her face the clearest he’s seen it today. “I know.”

“That’s because you’re miles wiser than me.” He leans forward until their foreheads touch and he can count the teardrops on her eyelashes. The steam from her cup billows up in a faint cloud. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? It’s getting easier. I don’t know if you’ll ever fully heal, but you can survive a bad day or two.”

“I know,” Hitomi repeats, blinking rapidly. Twin streaks of tears slip down her cheeks, but the smile she gives him is bright and crystalline. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“Always at your service,” Date says, grinning back. “I guess I am good for something after all, huh?”

“Don’t go fishing for compliments now, Kaname,” Hitomi replies, but she’s laughing a little, so Date doesn’t hold back.

“Why would I go fishing when I’ve got the best catch right here, huh?”

“Ah, how roe-mantic of you.” Hitomi snickers, putting her cup down to return the high-five from Date.

Aiba groans. “You two deserve each other.”

Terrible puns, hot chocolate, a few judgmental cats, and just as fastidious sentient eyeball. Mizuki pretending to be asleep in her bedroom while chatting with friends, Iris on her second world tour, the cats raising hell in the wee hours of the morning; taxes, schedules, shared bank accounts; making each other coffee after waking up, cuddling before falling asleep. Two different lifestyles, meeting, diverging, meeting again, connecting into one.

Who knew it’d be that simple?

[cynamonowo]

beep boop. may i interest you in ryuki chapter diverge and all the involved narrative fuckery. have a fic

(línk in the notes ✌️)

[cynamonowo]

my piece for the aivember gift exchange!!! lïnk in the replies ✌️

[cynamonowo]

misc 18, boss & date

this one took a long time as well but ngl i had a lot of fun writing it (aitsf spoilers)

prompt list

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Every annual MPD party, thrown in order to celebrate good statistics and their capability to interfere with people of lower economic means whilst upholding the status quo, has been a pain in the ass. If given the choice, Shizue would much prefer to be handed a bottle of mustard and ordered to eat her own desk, than to spend an afternoon messing with her appearance, then an evening loitering in a crowd of middle-aged men who’d try to have a grope after a few sakes. Thank fuck she’s high rank enough that they don’t tell her to act as their waitress slash hostess, pouring drinks and keeping her head down. A few years ago, some other female guests did end up stuck in that role, but since then there’s been enough money in the budget to hire a proper catering service. As soon as she’s done conversing with the head of the traffic department — an old guy with wandering hands number who-fucking-cares — she swans over to the nearest table bearing a platter of wine glasses.

“Is that how this whole party goes? Jesus Christ.”

Shizue grins around the lip of the glass. Another perk of today’s party — she managed to drag along her favorite dumpster fire personified, both as her plus one and due to his promotion to the number two in ABIS. If she’s honest with herself (and she usually is), watching Date squirm in a suit while glaring daggers at everyone around is really funny. His wish to be somewhere else, preferably in another country or galaxy, is as clear to her as the surprise of each person they talked to tonight. Yes, the eyepatch, long hair, and general aura of malice work to make one give him a double-take.

“Welcome to the world of top brass,” Shizue says cheerfully. “Hold on to your panties, because it’s only going to get worse.”

“Jesus Christ,” Date repeats. “I’m too sober for this.”

Now it’s her turn to glare. “You don’t even drink.”

“Maybe I should start.” A beat. He stares at her wine. “Well, restart.”

Before he can give in to the impetus, Shizue snatches a glass of water and thrusts it into his hands before pulling them away from the alcohol. Shit. She should’ve known not to lead him towards this spot; her apology is meeting his eye and a wry smile, and he cants his head, understanding.

“If you fall off the wagon because of me,” Shizue says under her breath, “Hitomi will kill me. And then you’d probably end up taking the heat because you’re stupid like that. Drink your water, Date.”

“You know me too well,” he snips back but does as ordered. She nods, satisfied. “But Hitomi wouldn’t kill you, she’s too nice.”

Biting her tongue, Shizue shrugs and tugs on the hem of her jacket. When she drove to their place to pick up Date, Hitomi greeted her with the usual sweet smile and a bit of small talk, but Shizue can see what’s percolating behind that layer of demure kindness. When she mentioned having to get a taxi home because of drinking, Hitomi nodded along, but the fierceness flashed in her eyes, the tiniest wrinkle between her brows. Shizue got that message. Not like it was needed, but still. It’s been two years since Date stopped drinking, five years since, as Shizue calls it in her head, the Saito Sejima Sadism and Slaughter Show, and sure as hell she’s not gonna bring this period of relative calm careening into the gutter. She likes Date the way he is now, as calm as before but somehow steadier, more relaxed, with crow’s feet and a golden band on his finger, whining about Mizuki’s high school reign of terror (atta girl) or gushing about Hitomi. He’s happy. Shizue’s happy that he’s happy. But, alas, that does not influence the current situation for she can see another figurehead balk at them before deciding to come by.

“Get ready,” she murmurs before he’s in the earshot, “that’s the finance crimes department guy.”

“D’you want me to glare?” Date murmurs back because he’s her kindred spirit. Shizue gives an infinitesimal nod and plasters on a coquettish smile.

“Kuranushi, sweetheart,” the dude croons, his voice greasier than a sponge soaked in months-old fryer oil. Shizue imagines driving the heel of her shoe into his eye socket so she can take the offered hand rather than bite it clean off.

“Mister Matsumura, sir,” Shizue chirps out, managing not to cringe as he squeezes her palm in both of his. God, the sweat… He didn’t even care to wipe them on his pants, the asshole. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Right back at you, Kuranushi,” Matsumura replies with a leery smile, pupils blown wide while working his jaw. “Ah, such a shame, I hoped you’d look more feminine for once! Would make an old man like me so, so happy…”

Gross. She pulls her hand away, glad she decided not to wear a dress this year also — her tux and stiletto heels combo is proper enough, thank you. “You know how it is! The times change, so I have to keep up before I get swept away.”

Matsumura’s sneer flickers. There are rumors he’s gonna be forced to retire before the winter, and Shizue does enjoy poking asshats in their weak points. But no, officer, it wasn’t on purpose, oh no, do you honestly think she would do that? Flash a smile, flutter the eyelashes, and they dismiss her, unaware of how much leverage she has on this entire system. Men. So predictable.

“Sir,” Date says from her side, face blank, pulling the attention away. Good call. Matsumura peers at him, nostrils flaring in barely hidden contempt.

“I believe I haven’t seen you before,” he says coolly, eyes flicking from Date to Shizue. “Kuranushi, you haven’t mentioned a husband.”

Date looks disgusted. Shizue’s trying very hard not to laugh like a rabid hyena, suddenly ecstatic to be here and cause this interaction. Her husband. Oh my god. It’s a shame Date didn’t bring Aiba, ‘cause she’d watch the tape every day to remind herself of her life’s innate goodness.

“No, oh no,” she says, wheezing only a little, “he’s my second in command.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Date drones, bowing just enough to be polite, “name’s Kaname Date, Senior Agent. Sir.”

“Yuta Matsumura, Financial Crimes.” If looks could kill, thank god this place is crawling with cops as Matsumura would get arrested immediately. Kind of a shame, though, it’d be such a pleasant sight — although losing Date wouldn't be worth it. “You and Kuranushi, you two better not cause any more trouble, alright? My people are busy enough as it is.”

“Our only goal is to spread justice,” Shizue says archly, “as it is the purpose of our job. Unfortunately, you can’t always do that smoothly.”

“Thank you for your feedback,” Date adds, in the tone suggesting boredom rather than genuine gratitude. “I hope we don’t step on too many important toes.”

“Do try that.” Matsumura glances around, clearly searching for an out, before clapping his hands and declaring, “Well, you two, it’s time I have a bite to eat. It’s been a pleasure to talk to you, and I hope you enjoy your time here.”

Watching him waddle away, Shizue shakes her head. While his parting words could be interpreted as a thinly veiled threat, she’s not too worried. The dude thinks he’s the emperor of his sad little department because he and the Chief Inspector go golfing every other month, but Shizue has a neat little folder with all the photos of him doing neat little lines of coke in the office bathroom. Tit for tat. She’s halfway convinced to drop the pics into the mailbox of the newspaper which ran an article about police corruption. At this rate she’s outgrown stirring the hornet’s nest; she’d much rather lob a grenade at it and watch the ensuing chaos, a bag of popcorn in hand. A girl does like a good bout of drama.

Lamentably, today’s not the right moment for appreciating some conniptions. Turning to Date, Shizue tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and keeps her voice low.

“I see you’re as done with this nonsense as I am.”

“How could you tell?” He raises his eyebrow, taking a sip from his glass.

“Because I know you so well, dear hubby.” Date promptly chokes on his water; spluttering wildly, he gives her a dirty look.

“You’re evil,” he gasps out.

“We’ve established that, so try to keep up,” Shizue says without missing a beat. “Let’s stay here for two hours more, then ditch this place and go hit up a ramen shop.”

Wiping his face, Date sighs. “You’re the one who insisted on having me here, so the food’s on you.”

“We’ll see about that,” she replies with a wink, already fine with paying.

Had she known dragging him along would be such a blast, she’d have done it earlier. They eat some fancy shrimp, listen to the Chief’s speech about the importance of blah blah and the magnitudes of blah blah blah, exchange more pleasantries, then book it out of there and into a secluded izakaya in Ibaraki. Resting her cheek on her palm, elbow propped on the scratched table, Shizue watches Date fiddle with the jukebox until he hits a motherload of old jazz songs. What a dork. She steals a piece of unagi from his plate.

All in all, not the worst ending to a burdensome day.