musing on it and i feel like for each wt character i am drawn to whumping there is a distinct unique flavor that is especially tasty to me
yuuma: he is so small. he is SO SMALL. seemingly highly physically breakable while actually very physically and emotionally resilient makes me want to crunch him. force his bottled-up trauma to the surface, force him to feel his own weakness, take away his armor both literal and figurative and make him so, so very vulnerable 😌
jin: ripe for emotional whump, primarily. he has the weight of the world on his shoulders and he doesn't ever let himself stop. now he's in love with a dying boy and the future is bearing down on them both and jin can't help but take responsibility for all of it, it's what he does, it's who he is. how far can he push himself before he falls apart?
inukai: break that smiling mask of his and leave him raw and exposed, unable to handle the flood of his own emotions and trauma. without his facade he's empty underneath and he doesn't want anyone to see him like this, least of all the people he loves most. he can't ask for help. all he can do is hide, and wait for the ones who find him to turn away in disgust.
izumi: he's confident, high-spirited, more than a little cocky with the talent to back it up. i want him in over his head, overwhelmed by a situation so far outside his experience and training that he has no idea how to handle it and breaks himself to pieces in the attempt. i want him irrevocably changed, the painful contrast between izumi as he was and the quiet, subdued shadow left behind in the aftermath.
kikuchihara: break his spirit, even if he fights every step of the way until he has nothing left. he's strong, but fragile, and once he's isolated and helpless i don't think it'll take much to make him shatter. without all his bravado and sharp-tongued wit he is just so very small. utagawa holding him wrapped up in his arms, grounding him with the sound of his heartbeat, trying painstakingly and lovingly to put the pieces of him back together, desperate to protect him even if it's arguably far too late.
azuma: he is steady and calm and so incredibly kind, someone to be relied upon; the respect and love so many have for him speaks for itself. it's a special kind of cruelty to use that same kindness against him, make him helpless to protect the ones he feels responsible for, even make him complicit in their suffering. i want to strip away his dignity - and he'll do it himself, if he must, if that's what it takes to protect his own. give him guilt and self-loathing that eats him alive. he's always taking care of everyone around him and now those closest to him must do the same for him, even if they have no idea how.
ninomiya: you don't even need to torment him. he does that to himself. beneath that stoic facade he wants to desperately to believe in, he's a torrent of emotions he has no idea how to manage and deeply isolated by his own pride. and it will hurt him, breaking down those walls, even if it's for his own good. he needs azuma, willing to hold him down and look into his eyes and tell him in no uncertain terms, you are enough. i love you. (and if azuma is taken from him - well. what then?)
Summary: Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? - The Tale-tell Heart (Edgar Allen Poe)
Author Notes: Some depictions of violence and threats of rape not to a canon character.
AO3 mirror
In front of the class, the history teacher drones on at the board about foreign trade in the Heian period. Behind him, two girls moan about boycotting a particular brand of markers because the company upped the price. Off to the side, a bunch of boys snigger about the fact that the teacher’s toupee is slipping. Kikuchihara slides down in his seat and stares down at his desk.
He’s better than this, to be distracted by something so trivial. He can endure so much more. And yet, Kikuchihara cannot stop himself from closing his eyes, his concentration zeroing on a specific heartbeat sitting near the door. Utagawa’s heart thumps slowly and steadily, the beat of an athlete – and someone on the verge of sleep. They had stayed up late last night, working on their homework into the early morning because they had been on duty earlier that day.
The teacher’s trousers rustle as he approaches. Kikuchihara opens his eyes just in time to hear him say snottily, “If you are not feeling well, you are welcome to spend the rest of the lesson in the infirmary. Only people concentrating on my lecture are needed in this classroom.”
Utagawa wrenches himself out of his chair before Kikuchihara can say anything. “I’ll take him to the infirmary, Suzuki-sensei. We were on duty yesterday so he’s probably just tired.”
Suzuki-sensei narrows his eyes. But he’s not dumb enough to actually say anything, not if he wants to keep his job at a school affiliated with Border.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Kikuchihara scoffs. “If you leave as well, whose notes am I going to copy off of when we go to Border today?”
Utagawa gets the hint, sitting back down at his desk with nothing more than a worried look. Kikuchihara slips out of the door before Suzuki-sensei gives him a warning for insolence or something.
The nurse at the infirmary is unsurprised to see him; she has been provided with a list of Border agents at the school and their schedules as part of her job, she knows why he is here. It’s not the first time Kikuchihara skips class to stay in the infirmary in the days following an expedition.
The nurse knows of his Side Effect, keeping her movements slow and quiet as he lies down in one of the beds and closes the curtain. That’s why coming here is a bad idea. It is too quiet; only the presence of one other living person in the room. It can’t distract him from the echoes of punctured lungs and shrill crying. But staying in the classroom will just invite more condescension from the teacher.
Kikuchihara closes his eyes, thinks of Utagawa’s heartbeat, and endures.
Kikuchihara crouches behind the dumpster, Utagawa a familiar presence in front of him. A familiar but invisible presence with Chameleon activated. Kikuchihara has done the same, the stealth trigger hiding both his form and the trion steadily trailing from where the half caved-in shoulder where his right arm used to be. It is only a matter of time before either the wound or the Chameleon uses up his trion to the point where Kikuchihara’s trion body can no longer keep going. But he can’t deactivate it yet.
Beyond the dumpster, a soldier jeers something at the young urchin flailing in his grasp. He had been playing with the child for the last five minutes, Kikuchihara and Utagawa an unwilling audience stuck while the soldier blocks the entrance of the alley.
Finally, Kikuchihara hears the tearing of cloth and the child’s increasing shrieks of terror. He can’t tell what gender the urchin is, but it has been obvious all along what the soldier is planning. Kikuchihara has more important concerns; Utagawa is slowly, but audibly, shuffling forwards.
Kikuchihara flings out a hand, but it is too late. The two of them are out of the shadow of the dumpster just in time to see the urchin stab a giant knife into the soldier’s chest. You can’t have sex in a trion body, but switching back into your normal body just leaves you vulnerable.
They watch as the soldier lie in a puddle of his own blood; the child crouches above him, stained in his blood, crying hysterically as she? He? Stabs wildly at the dead body.
It is a dream, Kikuchihara knows, but also a memory. One he does not remember the ending of.
Kikuchihara wakes in his room, the time on his phone telling him it is the middle of the night. There is a text from Utagawa, the notification waking him up.
I had another one.
That is all Kikuchihara needs to know. He gathers up all the things he need for school and changes into his school uniform; he won’t be coming back here until school ends tomorrow.
He doesn’t bother leaving a note; the only place he would go to in the middle of the night is Utagawa’s house. It’s habit, by this point.
Kikuchihara even has his own copy of Utagawa’s key; using it to open and then lock the front door, leaving his shoes at the entrance as he makes his way soundlessly through the shadowy hallway to Utagawa’s room. Utagawa’s parents are never home when he calls Kikuchihara over, but even knowing that he cannot bring himself to break the silence.
Utagawa is already waiting for him in the unlit room, sitting on the side of the bed and naked as the day he was born. Kikuchihara drops his bag near the door, then tiptoes over to the bed. He lets Utagawa undress him, fingers moving nimbly as they work through the buttons, but not enough to hide the slight tremors that wrack them.
Kikuchihara stays silent, waiting as Utagawa folds and deposits the clothes off to one side. They climb into bed together, skin entwining with skin to remind each other that this is reality; they are human in human bodies capable of human pain and human warmth.
Kikuchihara lies his head down on Utagawa’s chest, letting the beat of his heart fill every nook and cranny inside himself. Utagawa has his own ways of coping; Kikuchihara can feel a hand coming up to rest in his hair.
Utagawa calling him over means he must have dreamed as well. The question is, “Which one was it?”
There is a small pause, and then – as if a little embarrassed – Utagawa says, “Our first expedition. Those corpses we went through.”
“How virginal,” Kikuchihara says huffily, trying to pretend his heart didn’t skip a beat on being reminded of it.
“That insult doesn’t even make sense,” Utagawa says exasperatedly, but does not stop the hand combing through Kikuchihara’s hair.
“It makes perfect sense,” Kikuchihara retorts, pinching at Utagawa’s chest hairs.
“Stop that.” Utagawa slaps lightly at the hand on his chest.
“Toughen up,” is all Kikuchihara says in response. He flicks at an exposed nipple. In the darkness, he can just barely see it starting to harden.
The hand in his hair pauses, then Utagawa asks slowly, “Do you want to have sex…?”
Kikuchihara can hear both of their hearts speeding up. But it’s not loud enough to drown out the squelch of metal piercing a living chest. Or the sobbing as the child keeps stabbing long after the body has stopped moving. “Not really.” Belatedly, reluctantly, Kikuchihara asks, “Do you?”
Utagawa breaths in, out, then in again. “Not really.”
Kikuchihara buries his nose into Utagawa’s chest, taking in the refreshing scent of Utagawa’s body wash. Above him, Utagawa’s hand starts sliding through his hair again; the rhythmical movements blending with the swish of Kikuchihara’s hair falling into place. Finally, he can feel Utagawa’s body starting to relax.
“Thanks for coming,” Utagawa says into Kikuchihara’s hair.
Kikuchihara hums in response; the clear thumping of Utagawa’s heart is finally making his brain slow down.
“Go to sleep,” says Utagawa, so quietly even Kikuchihara’s ears almost doesn’t pick up on it.
“Mmph,” says Kikuchihara. He doesn’t need Utagawa to tell him that.
Kikuchihara wakes up the next morning to a loud buzzing with his hair in his mouth and Utagawa snoring ever so quietly above him. Kikuchihara rolls off the broad chest he had fallen asleep on and picks up his vibrating phone.
The phone display tells him it is 6.30am in the morning; Kikuchihara yawns quietly as he turns off the alarm. There is plenty of time for them to get up and eat breakfast before going to school.
Utagawa is still sleeping after Kikuchihara returns from brushing his teeth, a pair of Utagawa’s sweatpants the only thing preserving his dignity. He kneels on the bed, looking down at Utagawa’s peaceful face. Stretching out a hand, it hovers for a moment before tangling in the tufts of bed hair. He can’t quite manage the same smooth moments as Utagawa, but it’s not like it matters with hair this short.
“I can tell you’re awake,” Kikuchihara announces as the heartbeat under him quickens. He is not quite looking at Utagawa’s face, so he cannot tell what expression the other is sporting.
“What time is it?” Utagawa says sleepily, one hand coming up to grab at Kikuchihara’s hand in his hair. Kikuchihara watches as Utagawa moves the hand to his chest, cupping it within his own hands.
“It’s almost seven,” says Kikuchihara, gently curling and uncurling the hand, brushing it against Utagawa’s. “If you don’t hurry up, we’re going to be late for school.”
“It’s too good a morning for your complaining,” Utagawa says, vestiges of sleep still clinging to his smile. He sits up, a smooth motion that shows off his abs and makes Kikuchihara want to tsk. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Toast is fine,” Kikuchihara says idly, pulling away to start changing into his uniform. He watches appreciatively, if a little enviously, as Utagawa ambles out of the room towards the bathroom still naked. Utagawa isn’t as obsessed with training or muscles as someone like Reiji, but he keeps himself fit and it shows.
Kikuchihara finishes tying his tie, gathers up his schoolbag, and trudges down to the kitchen. He has been in Utagawa’s house often enough to know exactly where everything is.
By the time Utagawa reaches the kitchen himself, the toast has just popped up and Kikuchihara is shovelling scrambled egg from the frying pan onto two plates.
“Nice,” Utagawa says appreciatively, adding the toast to the plates as well. “I’ll make a quick salad. I think there’s still some juice in the fridge, pour it out?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Kikuchihara rolls his eyes. He dumps the pan in the sink to soak, and gets out the juice. “Aren’t you in a disgustingly good mood.”
Utagawa hums happily as he dumps cherry tomatoes into two bowls of fresh lettuce. “I said it’s a good morning, didn’t I? I like being domestic together.”
Kikuchihara scowls down at the picturesque breakfast laid out between them. “I guess I don’t dislike being here with you.”
