marimo writes

Marimo || They/He || A blog for my fanfiction account villainscomplex (previously asylumsession). Asks, fanart, updates, writing. Tracking #villainscomplex and #asylumsession.  

[villainscomplex]

self-portrait (egoist)

4.5K || Ivan character study told in the format of a written exam.

Meant to finish this before his adoption day, but yknow how it is.

Only on:

AO3

[villainscomplex]

Reverence

OUGH.... posting zine pieces part 2. this one was for the @bpfineartzine Also on: AO3

--

There’s something about cathedrals that makes Yotasuke feel impossibly small. 

It’s something to do with the architecture, surely; the way the roof arches endlessly overhead and makes the entire building look larger than life. At the same time, it’s nearly suffocating inside, the weight of thousands of years of existence coming down at the doorway. If he’s being honest, Yotasuke doesn’t know why he keeps agreeing to go along with Yatora and his last-second whims. They’re university students now, adults in every sense of the word, but here he is, loitering at the entryway of the Holy Resurrection Cathedral while Yatora wanders in with wonder in his eyes.

In a way, he supposes, he owes Yatora. The other man ceaselessly drags him out of his shell, relentlessly pushes him out of his comfort zone, and challenges him at every turn. It forces Yotasuke to stop and think about his perception of things. That, perhaps, is why he agrees when Yatora calls, asking him to tag along. 

The cathedral is in Tokyo, so the ride over isn’t long. Yatora dozes off, and his hair is still mussed from where it was pressed against the window when they get to the doors. Yotasuke fixes his stare on the strands, smooth where they’re pressed flat above his ear. The right thing to do, he considers, might be to tell Yatora to fix it. He doesn’t.

They pay their donation at the door and receive candles to light inside. When they enter the cathedral, the room ahead is nearly empty. This is when the feeling strikes Yotasuke; when the doors shut behind them and the oppressive weight of the room comes crashing down. Yotasuke takes in the red carpets, the blue of the stained glass windows, the alternating dark and light of the paintings lining the walls. There are no pews like he anticipated, only rows of brown chairs with crosses carved into the backs. 

Yatora comes to a halt near the center of the room, his head turned up. Overhead, the domed ceiling yawns widely, reaching out with a grand chandelier. 

A personal project, Yatora had called it. Yotasuke doesn’t know why he chose a cathedral of all places for a personal project, nor does he know what this project entails. All that he knows is that it feels like he has thousands of eyes upon him now. Every painting, every statue, every window watches him. 

“It’s beautiful,” Yatora’s voice comes out, barely a breathless whisper. 

It’s terrifying, Yotasuke thinks. He doesn’t understand architecture or religion. But what he does understand is that existing in this place makes him feel infinitesimal, merely a fleck in the course of the universe. Yatora moves, and Yotasuke follows. 

Yatora has his sketchbook in hand, but he keeps it clutched close to his chest like he’s forgotten he’s holding it to begin with. He crosses over to the furthest wall, taking in the rows of paintings. Yotasuke stands where a priest would, turning to look out on the church. There’s only a few other people in the room, murmuring together near the doorway. They look as if they’ve had their time and are prepared to leave. Yotasuke is sure there must be someone leading other tours here somewhere, but if there is, they’re nowhere to be seen. 

“Yaguchi-san,” he asks without looking back. “Do you believe in a god?”

He doesn’t need to look to know Yatora is listening. He hears the shuffle of shoes and assumes it’s Yatora turning to look at him. There’s a beat of silence that follows, and then Yatora steps past him, walking to sit in the first chair on the first row. He gazes up at Yotasuke, still standing at the pulpit. 

“I think there’s something out there,” he replies after considering it. “I don’t know what’s correct, but we can’t possibly be alone, right? It can’t just be a coincidence we were created.” 

Yotasuke makes a noncommittal sound. There are theories, of course, of the how and the why. The Big Bang. God. Gods, plural. In the end, there’s no way of knowing what the truth is until the day they die. The distinctive scratch of pencil on paper draws his attention, and he glances back once more. Yatora has dropped his head, sketchbook propped up on his knees as he hunches over it. 

“I don’t know,” Yatora continues without glancing up. “I think believing in something is just comforting. It gives us purpose, I guess. Like we were all put here in this specific lifetime for a reason, meant to be who we are and meet the people we care about. I don’t know about fate and destiny and all that, but it couldn’t just be a fluke that I was able to meet everyone. I think we were meant to be friends.”

Yatora pauses in his sketching, glancing up to catch Yotasuke’s gaze. The blond smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he laughs awkwardly, “that sounds kind of strange, I guess.”

Yotasuke dwells on this for a moment. He doesn’t know where he’d be if it hadn’t been for Yatora entering his life when he had. By now, he surely would have quit art entirely. It had been his sole purpose for his whole life, and he can’t imagine where he would be if he had quit. These days, he’s coming to terms with his feelings more often, but he still doesn’t quite know who he is outside of art. It’s a process, certainly. 

But he doesn’t think Yatora is wrong, not really. Yotasuke doesn’t know about belief, but he does quietly think that he was meant to meet people like Yatora. At first, he’d been resistant to the idea of a friendship between them, and though he won’t admit it, these days he doesn’t think he can imagine his life without any of them. 

“No,” he finally replies quietly, not intending to say it at all, “it doesn’t sound strange.”

I get it, he thinks, but he leaves that much unspoken. 

Yatora gives him a strange, near indecipherable look. For a moment, they hold each other’s gaze, and then Yotasuke turns away once more, breaking first under the intensity of Yatora’s golden-eyed stare. After a moment, he hears the sound of Yatora’s sketching resume. He doesn’t look to see what the other man is drawing, focusing on the line of paintings along the wall again. Despite their light backgrounds, the paintings themselves are dark against the brilliant gold and white of the architecture, almost frightening in their intensity. 

Belief, Yatora had said. 

Yotasuke can’t claim to be an expert on Christianity, much less religion as a whole, but he’s witnessed the unyielding belief some of them hold. He walks the line of paintings slowly, taking in the details of the carefully crafted faces, the depictions of stories he doesn’t know. He wonders if the artist had painted these with that same belief in his heart. Perhaps it had been someone eager to express their feelings on the subject, but maybe it had simply been a commission by someone entirely indifferent. 

Still, it makes him feel something. 

It’s this, perhaps, that keeps drawing people back. In the same way that he keeps coming back to art, people keep coming back to religion, to their god, whichever one it may be. He thinks about Yatora calling it comforting, rolls it around in his mind contemplatively. He isn’t sure how comforting the idea of all-powerful being watching over them is, knowing all of the things that happen in the world, wondering why that being wouldn’t put a stop to them, but he supposes there’s a part of him that understands it. It’s easier than the idea that it’s just them in a big, empty universe. 

He drops his gaze from the paintings, shoving his free hand into his jacket pocket as he turns around to leave the pulpit. During the holy days, he’s sure this building is packed. A place like this probably isn’t meant to be viewed this way, empty and haunting, the weight of its purpose hanging over their heads. Yotasuke knows he won’t come again, but he can’t help but wonder what it’s like when the cathedral is full of life. He’s never gone to a Christian church, but he’s heard how they are, seen videos of what they look like with the masses of people and their hands raised in worship. 

Yatora is still hunched over his sketchbook, nearly bent in two. It’s an almost comical sight, the sketchbook balanced on one leg and his candle tucked up between his stomach and thigh, but Yotasuke finds himself watching anyway. It’s a fervency of its own, the way art is Yatora’s god, and he’s merely a disciple passing on its word. It’d been that unadulterated passion with no real skill to back it up that had pissed Yotasuke off when they’d first met. For the first time, he’d felt genuinely threatened, and he hadn’t known how to deal with it. These days, he almost finds solace in it, knowing that even he still has a passion for art somewhere in him. 

Belief and worship, passion and reverence—none of those feelings were so far detached from one another. 

“I think I’ve got it,” Yatora speaks so suddenly that Yotasuke jumps a little. 

The blond looks up, a mixture of determination and contentment swirling in his eyes. He grabs his sketchbook and stands, sending his candle tumbling to the floor. They both watch it roll across the crimson of the carpets. The tips of Yatora’s ears burn just as red.

“Right,” he says, like he’d only just remembered it existed.

Yotasuke hides a smile. “Let’s light them before we go.” 

Yatora scrambles for the candle, and Yotasuke steps around him to make his way to the rows of firelight from other visitors. He finds a less lit area, setting his candle down among them, and Yatora joins him. Without a word, they both light the wicks, watching the flames spring to life, two more pinpricks of light against the brilliant backdrop. Yotasuke puts both of his hands in his pockets, watching the wax melt. 

“Thanks for coming, Yotasuke-kun,” Yatora murmurs, his gaze fixed on the two fires, sitting side by side among the countless others. 

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Yotasuke confesses. 

“What about you?” Yatora asks.

He looks up from his candle, turning his gaze on Yotasuke once more. Behind him, the stained glass approximation of Jesus himself stands with his arms spread, wide and welcoming and blue. 

“What about me?” 

“You asked me, but I didn’t ask in return. Do you believe in a God?” 

Another group enters through the doors at the front, led by one of the guides that Yatora and Yotasuke had turned down after they’d made their donation to get in. He hears their voices, but not the words they’re saying. Yatora is still watching him, gaze unwavering, eyes unrelenting and curious. 

Yotasuke straightens up, leaving his lit candle among the many others. They’ll be extinguished by nighttime, taken out of the way for the groups that come in tomorrow, and the day after that. Still, it feels like they’ve left some sort of mark here, their own personal immortality. Yotasuke doesn’t think he believes in a god, but he thinks there are things here that could only be the work of something outside of their understanding. 

“I wonder,” he murmurs at last. 

Yotasuke doesn’t think he believes in a god, but as he watches the light filter through the stained glass, dyeing Yatora blue, he thinks that perhaps, in the wake of everything, there could be one after all. As they make their way back towards the door, Yotasuke looks up, gaze flitting over the still flattened strands of Yatora’s hair. He reaches up and fixes them himself. 

“It was messed up from the train,” he says in lieu of a real answer. 

It isn’t what he really wants to say, but Yatora smiles like he knows.

[villainscomplex]

Odds and Ends

Forgot to post my piece for the One Piece Grandline Gunsmoke zine over on twitter... my bad.

if you were wondering if i was off my bartocav shit? the answer is no <3

Also on: AO3

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Days prior to their first encounter, Bartolomeo catches wind of the stranger in town. 

His companion leans into his space, wild hair sticking out from beneath his hat. He’s grinning his gap-toothed grin, breath heavy with the stench of alcohol. He’s known Gambia as long as he’s been in this town, and the man never changes. That said, most things around here stay the same, so the news of a stranger spreads as quick as wildfire. 

It piques Bartolomeo’s interest immediately. He lifts his gaze, and the silent acknowledgment is enough to keep Gambia going. 

“Apparently, he’s stickin’ out somethin’ fierce,” the other man continues. “Ain’t nothin’ like the rest’a us. The real prissy type from what I’ve heard, but he’s goin’ around asking questions. Somethin’ about the gold river.” 

The people around these parts know better than to go snooping around. The town is packed full of outlaws, and one wrong move could be a bullet in your head. People come and go, but they’re all the same at the end of the day, claws sharp and guns loaded. 

“Must be real slow,” Bartolomeo remarks, grinning wickedly. “Makes ‘em an easy target.” 

“That’s yer plottin’ face,” Gambia looks vaguely concerned. “What’re ya planning this time? Ain’t we got enough trouble without ya startin’ more?” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Bartolomeo laughs, reaching over to slap Gambia’s shoulder. 

His companion looks a little nervous, but he doesn’t question any further, sinking back into his seat. 

The gold river. That’s a name Bartolomeo is far too familiar with.

He kicks his boots up on the table, stretching up so far that his chair tips back. The bar is perpetually filled with noise from the rowdy bunches that call the town home, temporarily or not. 

That had been days ago, and Bartolomeo has been keeping an eye out for this supposed stranger. He’s just starting to think the guy skipped town or finally got what was coming to him when the bell over the saloon’s wooden doors jingles loudly. The hinges creak loudly, but it isn’t the sound that draws the attention of Bartolomeo, among others. 

Bartolomeo understands why people were saying the man sticks out. His efforts at blending in are mediocre at best, clothes still visibly higher class than the majority of them can boast. It’s the rest of him that really gives him away, face clean and hair falling in silken, golden waves over his shoulders. He’s got the top two buttons of his shirt loose and a clean black hat tipped down on his head. 

Blue eyes skip across the crowd. They’ve gone silent, gazes sharp and hands dipping down to waists as they assess the threat in their midst. The blond man has the sense to drop his gaze at the very least, heeled boots clicking across the rickety wooden floor as he crosses straight to the bar. He’s got this irritated little twist to his lips as he slides into one of the stools, leaning in over the counter.

Bartolomeo grins crookedly. Even the way the other man walks is distinctive, back straight and steps forward and sure. He’s making an effort to blend in, but it’s shit enough that even Bartolomeo notices. He slings one arm over the back of his chair, settling in to continue watching the stranger unabashedly, uncaring if he’s caught. Conversations begin again, but they’re quieter now, and the other outlaws continue to side-eye the stranger. 

“Excuse me,” the blond murmurs, tipping his head at the barmaid. 

When she crosses to him, his voice drops just enough that Bartolomeo can’t hear him anymore, but whatever he says makes the woman look a little more nervous. 

“I ain’t heard of nothin’ like that, sir,” she tells him, slipping away to refill drinks at another table. 

The blond opens his mouth to call after her, but he catches some unfriendly gazes and seems to think better of it. Bartolomeo finally sits up from his slump and rises up. The screech of his chair draws the blond’s gaze, alongside a few others, but Bartolomeo ignores them as he sidles over to the stranger. 

The other man scrutinizes him, crosses one leg over the other, and then immediately uncrosses them like it had been subconscious. Bartolomeo spins him around in his stool so they’re both facing the bar again, slinging his arm over the blond’s shoulders.

“Listen,” Bartolomeo leans in, but his grin isn’t too friendly, “most’a us have already heard about ya, so let’s be real clear. Yer a stranger here, and we don’t take too well to ya. Let’s just say blending in ain’t your strong spot.”

The blond glowers at him as Bartolomeo slides into the seat beside him but doesn’t let him go.

“Well,” Bartolomeo pats the man’s arm expectantly, “got a name?”

Blue eyes, sharp like twin flints of flame, flick to him. “What do you want to know for?”

“‘Cause I hear yer goin’ around pokin’ your nose where it don’t belong,” he drawls. “People round here don’t take too well to nosy passersby.”

“I’m just passing through,” the blond snips back, unexpectedly more fierce than Bartolomeo had given him credit for.

“Yer real funny,” Bartolomeo remarks, leaning onto his elbow against the counter.

The blond screws up his face into something resembling distaste, sliding off his stool and out of Bartolomeo’s space. He looks irritated, undoubtedly still wanting to seek out what he’d come for, but coming to the realization that nobody here is willing to lend him a hand. Bartolomeo waves the woman at the bar back over, and she pours him a cup without him needing to ask. The blond eyes her, but she scurries away again before he can open his mouth. 

“Well,” the other man huffs out a breath, “this has been helpful. Goodbye.” 

He turns on his heel and gets two steps closer to the door before Bartolomeo turns on his stool, leaning back against the bar top with his drink in one hand. 

“I know where it is, by the way,” he drawls out, “the gold river, I mean.”

The blond starts, halting mid-step. His head turns, just slightly, but it’s enough that Bartolomeo knows he’s listening. 

“It’s a death wish ‘ta go alone,” he continues. “I could help ya get there. Might be a shot of surviving with two of us.” 

The stranger fixes him with a stony stare. His lips draw up in a scowl, but he doesn’t dignify Bartolomeo with a response. Bartolomeo watches him continue out the entrance, heels clicking against the wood. His grin widens, all teeth. 

“I give him a day,” he says to himself, turning back to the bar. 

His prediction is off, but only by a few hours. Sure enough, the next evening sees the blond man marching back into the bar, wearing the expression of someone trying to salvage his pride. Bartolomeo watches his approach with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Changed yer mind?” 

“Do you really know how to get there or are you just screwing with me?” He demands. 

“Nice to meet ya, too,” he retorts. “Yer new name is gonna be ‘Stranger’ at this rate.” 

The blond looks like he’s beginning to regret the decision to come back, gaze darting to the door like he’s gauging if this is worth it. Bartolomeo will admit that it probably won’t be, but he’s going to have fun either way. 

“Course I do,” he continues. “Been there plenty. It’s a real dangerous trip though, so my help ain’t free.” 

There’s a long moment where the two of them simply stare each other down, each waiting for the other to break first. Finally, Bartolomeo nudges out the chair across from him with his foot, knocking it against the blond’s leg. The man scoffs, yanks it out, and drops into it with his arms folded over his chest. 

“Cavendish,” the man relents. “Was that so hard?” Bartolomeo snarks. “Bartolomeo.” 

“What’s your price?” Cavendish asks impatiently, crossing one leg over the other and then thinking better of it again. 

Bartolomeo’s observance is here and there, but Cavendish is obvious enough about hiding his habits that they’re easy to spot. He definitely isn’t from any place like this with that sort of posture, manners, and attitude. 

“I’ll help ya get there, but in return, I want a share of the prize yer chasin’,” Bartolomeo tells him. “After that, we go our separate ways and never hafta deal with each other again. Sound like a deal?” 

He sticks his hand out across the table. Cavendish eyes it for a moment, gaze flitting over soot-stained fingertips. Finally, he sighs, grabbing the other man’s hand and shaking.

“Fine,” he scowls, “I’ll play your game for now. Try to cross me and it’ll be your last.” 

Bartolomeo barks out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? Pretty boy’s got teeth. Good ‘ta know.” 

Their partnership is temporary, but Bartolomeo thinks he’s going to enjoy it while it lasts. Cavendish doesn’t seem as pleased about it, but he’s visibly resigned himself to this, so he wipes his hand against his pant leg and leans back a little as Bartolomeo leans in, dropping his voice to discuss their plans. 

He doesn’t drill the blond on his origins or what he’s looking for at the gold river, but he’s got no interest in talking about himself either, so it’s only fair this way. If the man is trying to get to known gang territory, he must be desperate, and Bartolomeo’s got some business of his own in the same direction he’s been meaning to wrap up.

Their soft conversation is lost to the volume of the packed bar, but a plan formulates slowly. Bartolomeo isn’t the planning type of guy, but this will work for now. 

Cavendish leaves first. He’s still an eyesore in the town, so when the sky begins to grow dark, he slips out of the bar. Bartolomeo watches him vanish around the corner and downs the rest of his drink. Once the sun sinks entirely behind the horizon, he slides his boots off the table and rises, stretching languidly as he makes his way out of the saloon. 

Since they’ve established Cavendish doesn’t exactly blend in here, it’s Bartolomeo’s job to secure their transport. He isn’t exactly a subtle-looking figure either, but he walks the walk, so most people don’t glance twice. 

On the eastern side of town, the land opens up into a range. Bartolomeo knows of the man who owns the area, but he also knows there are always horses running around inside the fences. He leaps over the wooden posts, staying low to avoid being spotted as he creeps further in. 

His luck holds out, presenting him with two horses strapped up to the fence side. Their saddles are still on, but Bartolomeo can’t tell if they just came back from riding or are preparing to leave. Either way, this might be his only chance, so he crosses toward them. Both of the animals look nervous when he approaches, but they don’t cry out as he unties them, taking both back toward the opposite gate.

“Oi!” 

Bartolomeo curses, picking up his pace. A gunshot echoes behind him as he throws the gate open and leaps onto the back of the larger of the two horses, barely managing to adjust himself in the saddle before they’re taking off out of town. The shouting fades behind him as he struggles on the saddle, but it’s only a matter of time before they continue their pursuit. 

Cavendish steps out of hiding as he approaches the agreed-upon spot, taking the reins of the other horse from Bartolomeo’s hands. He barely has his foot in the stirrup before the yelling picks up again, and he wheels around to glare at Bartolomeo. 

“You got caught?” Cavendish demands. 

“Get on the horse,” Bartolomeo snaps back, clutching his horse’s reins as the creature shuffles nervously. 

The blond glowers, swinging onto the other horse. The two take off into the night, pursued by the sound of a few angry men. Cavendish pulls ahead easily, Bartolomeo trailing a few feet behind as he sways on the saddle, struggling to keep up with the horse’s movements. A bullet whizzes past his ear, startling the horse. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Cavendish demands from up ahead. 

“It ain’t listenin’ to me!” Bartolomeo barks back, fighting to stay on the saddle as the creature rears up. 

The horse whips around sharply, successfully dislodging its rider. Bartolomeo grunts as he hits the dirt, rolling to avoid getting crushed as the horse takes off back toward town. He can see the outlines of their pursuers as one breaks off to catch the runaway, but he isn’t going to give them the chance to catch up. Bartolomeo wheels around on his heel and starts running. 

Cavendish makes a sound of frustration ahead of him. He doesn’t appear to be having any problems with his horse, Bartolomeo notes, as the blond wheels around and starts back toward the outlaw. He flies past Bartolomeo, and then whips around again, coming straight for him. 

“What are you doing?!” Bartolomeo demands, backpedaling in an attempt to get out of the horse’s path.

“Get on!” 

Cavendish reaches out a hand as he flies past, and Bartolomeo grabs it without thinking. He jumps, and Cavendish shouts as he yanks him up over the horse’s back. Bartolomeo isn’t even sitting properly, draped behind the blond on his stomach, but Cavendish picks up the pace regardless. 

“If I’d known you were such a terrible rider, I wouldn’t have suggested horses!” 

“I am not a terrible rider,” Bartolomeo grunts, and then he nearly has the wind knocked out of him by a particularly hard step. “Let me sit properly, at least!”

“Get over it!” 

By some miracle–a miracle, truly–they get away. 

Having lost their pursuers, presumably hours later by how dark it is, the two continued to travel up until the sun is well over the horizon, rapidly heating the sand around them. It’s only then that they seek shelter, finding it in the form of an overhang of rocky shade by a pathetic creek. It’s a death wish to be caught out in the middle of the desert in the middle of the day, so it’s safest to take a break during the peak daylight hours and continue once it starts getting cooler at the end of the evening. 

Bartolomeo slides gratefully and unceremoniously off the back of the horse, the soreness in his legs visible in his gait.

“What made you such a good rider?” Bartolomeo huffs as he inspects his chest from his new spot in the dirt. “Ya ain’t even got a horse of yer own.” 

He’s certain he’s going to bruise after their rough getaway ride. It won’t be the worst he’s ever had, but he’s still going to complain about it. Cavendish cinches the horse’s reins around the scraggly tree growing up against the stacks of rocky terrain they’ve picked to rest at.  

“I do have a horse,” Cavendish informs him, “he just isn’t with me right now.”

“Left ‘im at home, huh?”

The blond’s gaze flits away, focusing out across the path ahead. “Something like that.”

He’s hiding something. Bartolomeo had figured as much from the get-go, but Cavendish constantly deflects anything that could even give something small away. He isn’t sure what personal connection his horse has to do with his story, but Bartolomeo decides he’s bored of prying anyway. It’s enough, though. He sees the way Cavendish runs his palm down the length of the stolen horse’s face, and then he turns away. 

Bartolomeo doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but then he’s waking up to the sound of Cavendish shifting around. The sun is beginning to sink beneath the horizon, bringing cooler air slowly with it. He parts his jaws in a wide yawn, stretching until he earns a satisfying crackle through his shoulders. Cavendish makes a face, but he doesn’t comment on Bartolomeo’s manners, even though he visibly wants to. 

The blond unties the horse. “Are you finally awake? It’s time to go.” 

Bartolomeo huffs in his direction, but he gets back to his feet, dusting off the back of his long coat in a futile attempt to get rid of some of the newly acquired dirt. Sure enough, it doesn’t work very well, but he thinks the effort is what matters. Cavendish hops back on the horse’s back, giving Bartolomeo a chance to properly get adjusted this time before he takes off. 

Over the next two days, it becomes clear that with one horse down, travel is noticeably slower. Bartolomeo isn’t miraculously better at riding, and Cavendish doesn’t magically have infinite patience.

“This isn’t working,” Cavendish snaps first. 

“Well,” Bartolomeo scoffs, “good thing ya won’t need to worry about it much longer, then. We won’t be able ‘ta even bring the damn horse much further.”

Cavendish glances back, giving him a nasty look. “What the hell do you mean?”

Bartolomeo jabs a finger up ahead. “We gotta cross those mountains. Between the railroads and the animals, a horse ain’t survivin’ there.” 

The blond catches him with a sharp smack to the side, deft and practiced despite currently holding the horse’s reins. Bartolomeo scowls back at him, hand flying to cover the aching spot. For someone as skinny as Cavendish is built, he smacks hard as hell.

“Oi!” He snaps. “The hell was that for?” “For not saying that sooner!” 

“It wasn’t necessary until now!” 

“Oh, so you were just planning to abandon both horses the entire time?” 

“I ain’t heartless! There’s a town just before the mountain footpath begins!” Bartolomeo snaps back. “Are ya happy now, princess?”

Evidently, the reply satisfies him. Cavendish snorts and whips around to face the path ahead again. Bartolomeo is dreading this journey more and more, but it’s far too late to turn back now. He probably can’t go back to that town, even if he wanted to, but it had been fun while it lasted. 

They reach the town just before sunrise. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Given they’re both technically outlaws, this is the best time to leave the horse and rush through the town to the mountains. It would be easier to find a place to rest there once they knew they were out of danger. 

Bartolomeo slides off of the animal’s back, staggering when his feet hit the ground. Cavendish dismounts with considerably more grace, securing the horse to a post near the town entrance, where someone would spot it quickly once the sun came up. The route through the town is faster than circling around it, so it’s best to bite the bullet now and risk it to rush through. Bartolomeo takes the lead, and Cavendish trails a step behind him, blue eyes hooded beneath the shade of his hat. 

Their luck holds out this time, and they make it through without incident, clearing the last half of the town just as people begin to rouse for early chores. Bartolomeo peers up at the mountain footpath. This is the most time-consuming part of the trip, and they’re on foot to make it worse. 

Cavendish is obviously anxious to get to the gold river, so they’re going to have to find a faster way to cross. Bartolomeo knows a way, but he gets the feeling Cavendish isn’t going to like it very much. 

Sure enough, it’s the following day when Cavendish finally vents his frustrations. 

“This isn’t going to work!” He throws his arms up. “It’ll take days to cross at this rate.”

“Well,” Bartolomeo finally approaches the subject, “there is a faster way, but it ain’t gonna be easy or fun. Might kill ya, actually.”  

Cavendish eyes him. Bartolomeo grins, all teeth. 

When they arrive at the tracks, Cavendish puts his foot down. He crosses his arms over his chest, glances both ways, and then whips around to glare at Bartolomeo.

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, ya wanted a faster way. This is the better option.”

The train sounds in the distance, and Cavendish glances back. 

“Let me get this straight,” Cavendish puts one hand up, “you want us to risk our lives jumping onto some rickety, moving train?” 

“S’that or keep goin’ on foot, yeah. It’ll probably be fine.” The sound of the train grows closer. “Better make yer choice now, princess. We gotta start running soon if we’re gonna get on without losin’ something.” 

Cavendish tears his hat off, frustrated. “If we die, I’m going to haunt you in the afterlife.” 

Bartolomeo doesn’t think he could have come up with a more effective threat. He’s not sure he could deal with Cavendish for the entirety of the afterlife, however long that may be. Cavendish puts his hat back on and takes off along the tracks, Bartolomeo in close pursuit. The train rounds the corner behind them, swaying along as it speeds up the tracks. It’s coming fast, but not so fast that Bartolomeo thinks they’ll have too big of an issue getting on. Cavendish pulls a few paces ahead of him as the train blows by them. 

Bartolomeo waits until it’s about halfway past him and glances back for his opportunity to board. He sees it coming up with the next car, a handle sticking out just low enough for him to catch. As soon as it nears him, he snags it and hauls himself up. Ahead of him, Cavendish hasn’t boarded yet, but he spots Bartolomeo as the other boards. Even without words, the two exchange a nod. Bartolomeo grins, making sure he’s secured before he stretches out, holding his hand out to the other man. 

Cavendish catches it with a shout, leaving the ground as he jumps for it, his other hand clutching onto his hat. Bartolomeo throws the entirety of his body weight back, staggering into the body of the car and hauling Cavendish in with him. Both hit the ground in a heap, gasping at the exertion, and then Cavendish laughs, loud and breathless. 

“We did it,” he manages, eyes wide and hair windblown. “I thought I was going to lose an arm.” Startled by the laughter still, Bartolomeo only has the capacity to blink back at him. He’s a little out of breath, between pulling a grown man onto a train and then having the air knocked clean out of him by the weight of the same person falling onto him. Cavendish has the sense to roll off of him first, sitting up to fix his hair and clothes. 

“I told ya it would be fine,” Bartolomeo says, matter-of-factly, once he gathers his bearings. “That wasn’t so bad.” 

For once, Cavendish cracks a smile. “I’ll give you this one. I suppose it wasn’t awful. It was almost fun.” 

Well, Bartolomeo isn’t expecting the confession, but another sharp grin cuts across his features. He’s starting to think Cavendish isn’t as big of a stickler as he’d initially thought. He’s prissy, but there’s a daring guy somewhere deep down in there. 

Bartolomeo stays on his back, splayed out across the floor of the train car as it bumps beneath him. It isn’t going to be the most comfortable trip, but it’s leagues better than the hike they would have had otherwise. Cavendish shifts to lean up against the wall, kicking Bartolomeo’s leg with his foot. Bartolomeo gives him a side-eye. 

“Listen, I’m only going to say this once, and if you mock me I’ll push you off the train.” Cavendish jabs a finger at him.

Bartolomeo does not doubt him. 

Cavendish sighs, turning his gaze away. “Thank you. For helping me.” 

Bartolomeo cackles, turning over to face the blond. “Listen,” he says, “I got my own agenda too. I’m sure ya know that. I helped ya for my own reasons, but it’s still been fun.” 

“I know that,” Cavendish scoffs. “I could tell you were the selfish type from the get-go. Even so, I’m sucking up my pride for this, so just accept it.” 

Bartolomeo glances him over, but Cavendish refuses to meet his gaze. Finally, he lays back down, closing his eyes. 

“Okay,” he concedes, “yer welcome, then. Now, I’m gonna sleep while we can.” 

Cavendish’s gaze flits over to him just before Bartolomeo closes his eyes, but the blond remains silent. As Bartolomeo sleeps, the train carries them through the night and across the mountainous terrain. He doesn’t dream, but there are a few times when a particularly harsh bump rouses him briefly enough for a glance around. At some point, it seems Cavendish doses off too, head dropping to the side, and his hat resting in his lap.

When he really wakes, it’s from Cavendish shaking him.

“We’re out of the mountains,” the blond tells him, “get up. We have to get off soon, right?” 

“Hope yer good at breaking falls,” Bartolomeo mumbles, sitting up with another wide yawn. 

This isn’t Bartolomeo’s first rodeo, but he’s sure it will be entertaining to see Cavendish leap from a moving train. Gazing out of the train car, Bartolomeo takes in the familiar surroundings. It’s been a while since he’s come this way, for good reason, but it’s probably about time to settle that anyway. It’s not the type of thing he intended to drag anyone into, but he’d warned Cavendish from the start. He’d promised to get him to the river, and even from here, he can see the distinctive shine of it beneath the early sun.

Once they get there, they can go their own ways, and Bartolomeo will sort out his own mess from there. That will be that. 

He pointedly ignores the little twinge in his chest. 

Cavendish comes up beside him, hanging onto the side of the opening. “That’s it, isn’t it? The river.”

“Sure is,” Bartolomeo confirms. “Yer almost there.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, almost imperceptibly, Cavendish frowns. Bartolomeo doesn’t have time to think about that now–it’s their stop. He takes a few steps back and then gets a running start for the opening in the car. Cavendish shouts as Bartolomeo leaps out into the open air, hitting the ground into a roll that sends a shock up his shoulder, but leaves him mostly unharmed. 

“You’re insane!” Cavendish’s voice is nearly swept away by the wind. 

Nonetheless, Bartolomeo watches him disappear deeper into the train car. He takes the running leap, flinging himself into open air with his coat spiraling around him. Despite his prior statement, he looks almost thrilled, hair whipping past his face as he twists to catch himself in a roll. It’s the clumsiest thing Bartolomeo has seen from him thus far, but it serves its purpose. The train speeds on ahead, leaving the two of them in the dust. 

Bartolomeo joins him further up the hill, and together, they make the final trek to the river. “Oi,” Bartolomeo says as they grow near, “there’s somethin’ else ya should know. I meant it when I said these parts were dangerous. There’s a g–”

Sharp, cackling laughter slices through the air, cutting him off. Bartolomeo’s countenance turns steely as he turns to face the owner of that hyena laugh. Bellamy grins back at him, all teeth and vicious promise. 

“Long time no see, Bartolomeo.” The man sneers. “Thought you’d never come around.”

“Gang.” Bartolomeo finishes between his teeth. 

“Oh,” Cavendish exhales beside him. “This was your unfinished business.” 

Bartolomeo’s hand settles on the pistol at his waist. “Best we part ways now.” 

Cavendish hesitates. “You better not die.”

“Aw,” Bartolomeo grins lopsidedly at him. “Are ya worried about me?” 

Cavendish doesn’t admit it, but his expression gives him away. “We started this together. We’re finishing it together.” 

“Gold’s all gone!” Bellamy calls out mockingly. “That’s what you’re here for, right? You’re months too late.”

Cavendish turns, fixing Bellamy with a stony glare. Bartolomeo realizes, with a start, that he has never seen Cavendish’s anger, harsh and chilling. If looks could kill, Bellamy would have dropped then and there. Even Bellamy visibly hesitates in the steely blue stare. 

“I’ll get what I came here for,” Cavendish snarls. “You just watch.” 

“This is between you and me, hyena!” Bartolomeo moves forward. “Let’s finish this, here and now. Ten paces.” 

Bellamy’s hand goes to his own pistol. “You must have a death wish.” Bartolomeo grins. “We’ll see.” 

He circles around, crossing to stand across from Bellamy. All he can do now is hope his aim is true; otherwise, Cavendish will be finishing this journey alone. It’s ten paces, and they finish this. He counts them. 

Ten, and Bartolomeo turns, draws his gun, and pulls the trigger. 

Pain lances through his shoulder. He drops his gun, staggering back as he clutches the wound. Still, through his pain-blurred haze, he sees red bloom across Bellamy’s chest, and the man drops like a rock. He probably isn’t dead–Bartolomeo doubts it, but this is still his victory. It’s over. He turns to Cavendish, making a motion like he’s tipping a hat. 

“Guess yer stuck with me after all, huh?” 

The blond looks relieved. Bartolomeo can’t help but feel the same. 

Cavendish helps him tend to the wound, tearing off a piece of his own coat to stop the blood flow. He sticks close to Bartolomeo’s side as they cross towards the compound at the side of the river. They’re lucky–Bellamy’s lackeys aren’t here. As long as they get out soon, they might survive this yet. 

“You’re insane,” Cavendish says again as he shoulders open the door, peering around to make sure they’re really alone. 

“I’m starting to think ya like that,” Bartolomeo barks out a pained laugh. “What’re ya gonna do now? Bellamy ain’t a liar; gold’s probably gone.” 

Cavendish lowers him into one of the seats in the room, but his gaze isn’t on Bartolomeo. It’s fixed on something across the room, glinting in the faint light. He crosses towards it, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. It looks like a jewel - an old one, from what Bartolomeo can tell, but clearly well cared for. 

“It was never about the gold,” Cavendish breathes. “Bellamy’s gang robbed my hometown. They took two things from me–this heirloom, and my horse.” 

Bartolomeo can’t help it; he laughs. Somehow, this makes sense. Cavendish is some rich boy posing as a cowboy to get his things back. The pieces slot together seamlessly. 

“Guess that’s it, then, huh?” He asks, leaning back. “We both got what we came for.” 

“Farul is probably outside,” Cavendish says in lieu of a response, turning the jewel over in his hand, and closing his fingers over it.  “I should get him and go home.”

It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Bartolomeo gazes back at him in the dim light of the building. He’s not much of a people person, but even he can tell that they’re both thinking the same thing. 

“We had fun, didn’t we?” Cavendish asks, looking up. 

“It ain’t gotta end, ya know,” Bartolomeo holds his gaze. “There’s always another adventure. Ya just gotta say the word, Cav.” 

“Don’t leave,” the words come spilling out. “Go on more adventures with me.” 

Bartolomeo grins in that wolfish way of his. He’s never considered himself a people person, much less a partner person. But he does want to continue adventuring with this annoying spitfire of a man, even if he’s sure it’ll drive him crazy down the road. That’s a risk he’s willing to take. He staggers to his feet, facing Cavendish.

“Where to?” 

[villainscomplex]

Blooms In Winter

finally got permission to post our pieces for @zosanauzine so here's mine Also on: AO3 ------------------ Sanji is pissed. No, scratch that. Sanji is outright livid.

It’s like this: today is his first day off in a while, so he’d taken his time enjoying it. He’d treated himself to a nice dinner and had just settled in with a glass of wine, which he hadn’t even taken a sip of before his phone began buzzing. The number that pops up on his screen isn’t one he’s particularly happy to see when he’s trying to have a peaceful night, but Zoro seldom calls him, so Sanji sighs, sets his cup down, and picks up the phone.

“I’m busy, you overgrown hedge,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Sanji pulls the phone away to make sure he hadn’t hung up.

“Uh,” a voice comes, unfamiliar and hesitant, “sorry. This isn’t- your friend is here, but he’s wasted and you’re his emergency contact, so…”

Sanji imagines his evening swirling down the drain. He sighs, dragging himself up from the couch and yanking his sweater back on. The stranger on the other end of the line tells him the bar’s name as Sanji haphazardly shoves his shoes on and snatches up his wallet and keys. He recognizes the name as one of Zoro’s more recent holes in the wall, but he’s only been once.

Stupid plant, Sanji thinks, marching down his icy stairs. It’s just like Zoro to get into trouble in this sort of weather. Sanji is pretty sure plants are supposed to wilt in winter, but here’s his personal one causing problems again. It’s cold as hell, Sanji is pissed, and he doesn’t remember agreeing to be Zoro’s emergency contact, but here he is. If he wasn’t weak to his own pesky feelings, he probably would have asked someone else to pick up their resident houseplant, or at the very least, told him to walk home himself.

The cold air would be sobering, but knowing Zoro, he’s not even dressed for the weather.

Throwing his car door open, Sanji gets in and slams it behind him. He cranks the heater, doesn’t give the engine a chance to warm up, and stews in his anger the entire drive to the bar. It’s out in the middle of nowhere — because of course it is — but the parking lot is nearly empty by the time he arrives. Zoro’s beat-up truck is parked in the corner of the lot, but it’s still visibly off, so Sanji’s eyes scan the building as he pulls up.

Zoro is sitting outside. Not only is Zoro sitting outside, but Zoro is sitting outside, red in the face, with no jacket, a short-sleeve shirt, a busted lip, and a dark bruise cresting the curve of his cheekbone. He’s sulking, hunched up by the entryway like an irritated child being punished.

Sanji throws his car into park despite being anything but in the lines of the parking spot. Exiting the car, he stalks over to Zoro, who looks even less pleased to see him than he had at being stranded in the snow.

“I told ‘em not to call you,” Zoro mumbles, visibly unsteady. “That witch set you as my ‘mergency number.”

Sanji has only seen Zoro wasted one other time, and it hadn’t been a fun one. He doesn’t know what had driven the man to it this time, but frankly, it’s the last thing on his mind right now. As it is, he just wants to get out of the cold, with or without his charge. He’ll ask Nami about the contact situation later, but right now, he doesn’t even care.

“You are the stupidest, biggest pain in my ass. Get in the car.” Sanji jabs a finger at the vehicle. “Did you get into a fight and get kicked out? Are you stupid?”

“He started it,” Zoro huffs.

“Get in the car,” Sanji repeats irritably.

“No,” Zoro glowers, “I can drive myself home. My keys are just inside.”

“Marimo,” Sanji bites out. “Get in the damn car or I’m going to leave you to freeze.”

To prove his point, Sanji whirls around and starts back to the driver's side. Behind him, he hears Zoro take two steps and then promptly stagger. The blond sighs, going back to help his stumbling companion to the car. Once again, he’s quietly surprised to see Zoro so genuinely wasted. His tolerance is notoriously high, so he has to actively make an effort to get this drunk. Still, he grumbles as he helps Zoro into the passenger seat, just to make his irritation known.

The car is dead silent right up until they exit the parking lot, leaving Zoro’s truck behind in the darkness.

“I can’t believe this,” Sanji snaps, irritation bubbling up his throat, “I was having a perfectly good evening to myself, but no, you had to go and be a drunk asshole and get into another bar fight. Haven’t you learned your damn lesson?”

Zoro stays silent, sinking into the passenger seat with his arms crossed and gaze set ahead.

“You’re so irresponsible! You can’t keep getting into fucking fights everywhere and expecting us to bail you out all the time. What would have happened if you’d gotten arrested, huh? Did you even think about that? You don’t even have a job to pay any of us back for bail money!” Sanji glares at the road as he goes on, pretending it’s Zoro. “Not to mention I’m always the one who ends up having to get you out of all of your stupid consequences. I should have left you in the damn snow.”

Zoro, sick of the ranting, throws his hands up. “Don’t act like you’re any better! You woulda gotten into it over some girl faster than I did! I didn’t ask them to call you! I was fucking drunk and the guy took my phone to call you! Also, I do have a job, you’re just the only one who doesn’t know because I didn’t want to deal with you mocking me about it!”

“Why the hell would I mock you over a job, you jerk?!” Sanji demands, slamming one hand on the steering wheel.

“I’m teaching kids over at the dojo on the edge of town. There, happy?” Zoro raises his voice in a mocking pitch of Sanji’s own. “Awe, how cute, little marimo is teaching kids? I never thought I’d see the day!”

God, Sanji thinks, I would kill for a cigarette.

If he’d been pissed off before, now he’s outright livid. Zoro is clearly mocking what he’d thought Sanji would say, and Sanji won’t admit it, but it kind of hurts. He’s in disbelief that Zoro has so little faith in him that he thinks he’d mock him for a job doing what he loves as if that wasn’t what Sanji himself centered his own life around.

“Seriously?” He spits. “You really think that lowly of me? Do you really think I’d sit here and make fun of you for doing something you love, even if it is with kids? Jesus!”

“Please,” Zoro snaps back, “as if that isn’t what you always do. You’re coming for my throat at every other turn! Why would I ever say something?"

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to share in everyone’s happiness just because you thought I was going to be a jerk about it? Great, good to know! If that’s how you really feel, then why the hell are you even in my car? Maybe you should just walk home!”

Zoro twists to glare at him. “Maybe I should! I don’t know why you came in the first place if you were just going to spend the whole damn ride on my ass. You should have just left me in the snow like you said you were going to! The hell do you care?”

Sanji’s had enough. He’s sick of this argument, he’s sick of Zoro dismissing him, and he’s sick of the pain bubbling up in his chest. He knows Zoro is just being bitter, but the fact that this had come so far that he outright didn’t think Sanji cared even a little about his wellbeing, despite everything they’d been through, is painful. He snaps his head around.

“What do you mean the hell do I care? Aren’t I always the one who comes looking for you when you get lost? Aren’t I always the one there when you need it? Don’t I feed you? Aren’t I the one who always has your back? I care because I’m fucking in love with you, Zoro!”

Zoro’s entire face drops. A horn blares, and Sanji’s gaze snaps back to the road just in time to swerve, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car. His car goes skidding into the ditch, coming to a sharp, abrupt halt as Sanji slams onto the breaks. Both of them remain dead silent, save for their heavy breathing.

The lights on Sanji’s dashboard blink slowly, reminding him that the heater is still on. His knuckles are white in the dim moonlight, still clenched around the curve of the steering wheel. Slowly, he forces his hands to relax, detaching his fingers one by one from the leather. Beside him, Zoro is dead still, but Sanji hears him take a deep, steadying breath.

Sanji trembles as he puts the car in park and turns the headlights off, plunging them into near darkness.

The blond lowers his hands to his lap and lets his head fall back. Neither of them speak until Sanji can’t hear his heart racing in his ears anymore. The roads outside are quiet, save for the winter wind breezing over the hood of the car.

Shit, Sanji thinks as his words finally register. He’d said something he shouldn’t have. He’d said a lot of things he shouldn’t have.

“Zoro,” he finally speaks, voice quiet, even in the near silence. “Why are you at bars getting wasted and getting into fights in the first place?”

Zoro visibly looks more sober. It’s a miracle that he hadn’t been sick, but Sanji isn’t going to jinx that one. He keeps his gaze forward but watches Zoro from his peripherals. The green-haired man keeps his gaze set forward too, hands still clenched on his knees.

“I didn’t start it,” he says again. “I just saw someone getting harassed and told the guy to lay off. S’not like you wouldn’t have done it too. He swung first, so I swung back.”

“You look like shit,” Sanji informs him, finally turning his head to look at the other man.

Zoro cracks a crooked little grin, head lolling aside to look at Sanji. “You should see the other guy.”

Sanji turns his gaze forward again, fixed on the darkness outside. For a moment, they’re both quiet once more.

“Sorry,” Zoro finally mumbles, “for makin’ you come all the way out to get me. I know it was your day off.”

“Well,” Sanji replies, “I wasn’t going to let you actually get stranded out in this weather. Even if it was tempting. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re my pain in the ass, whether I like it or not.”

The car is warm. Sanji feels the heat prickle up the length of his arms, tucked neatly under his sweater sleeves. He can’t see the frost and flurry through the darkness, but he knows it’s there, blowing circles around the warm vehicle. Sanji can’t feel the cold, but he can feel the warmth of the car’s heat. He can feel Zoro’s presence beside him, a personal furnace, dark eyes still fixed on Sanji’s face.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say. Sanji thinks that it might be best to ignore his earlier words, but he also knows they’re past that point. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, but he parts his lips and turns to face Zoro, but by then it doesn’t even matter.

Zoro is already unbuckled. Sanji doesn’t even register it until the other man has practically lunged across the middle console, fingers curling into the collar of Sanji’s sweater to haul him in. Sanji thinks, what?

Zoro kisses him like he’s a breath of fresh air to a drowning man.

It’s uncomfortable: Sanji’s hip digs into the corner of his own seatbelt buckle, and the belt slots itself up against his neck, as if to tell him he should have thought to unbuckle himself too. His knee turns a little awkwardly to move with the rest of his body, Zoro tastes like blood and alcohol, and Sanji is concerned about his sweater’s elasticity. Despite everything, his fingers slide up into the hair over Zoro’s ears and pull him in, thumb dragging over those pesky golden earrings Zoro always wears. It’s a rush of heat, heedless of the cold outside.

Zoro draws back first with a little wince, and Sanji only chases a moment before he halts, taking a slow breath.

“Ouch,” Zoro grunts, releasing Sanji’s sweater in favor of his busted lip like he’d forgotten about it.

Sanji can’t help it. He laughs. Zoro gapes at him as Sanji throws his head back, howling with laughter at the other man’s face.

“God,” he gasps out, “gross. That was so gross.”

Zoro makes a face, but Sanji is already reaching to turn the headlights back on. He puts the car back into drive, and miraculously, it pulls right out of the ditch. Zoro buckles himself back in, but he keeps looking back at Sanji like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sanji beats him to it.

“Let’s go home,” he says. “I’ll teach you how to kiss better later.”

He offers his hand over middle console. For a long moment, Zoro stares back at him, but finally, finally, he takes it. Zoro’s palm is calloused and rough in his, but Sanji knows his own hands aren’t soft by any means. Still, they fit just right. Had it been any other day, Sanji probably would have been pissed about the cliches, but right now, all he can think is, finally.

Sanji’s fingers are cold, but Zoro’s settle into the space between them, and the feeling vanishes just as soon as it’s come.

[villainscomplex]

seek out gold (and sit on it)

i call this one “marimo got massive bartolomeo/bartocav brainrot and speedwrote an entire fic in half a month”  anyway this is fully written and updates on saturdays Now only posting on AO3.

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

i have been neglecting updating this here oops

anyway the new chapter is live on AO3

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

update: decided to stick with sporadic updates here

chapter 11 is live on AO3

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

a day late, but chapter 16 is live on AO3

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

chapter nineteen is live on ao3! getting towards the end!

PREVIEW

“Well,” Bartolomeo proposes, snorting, “you could start with just telling ‘em the truth. Since when do you worry about stupid shit like that anyway? You’ll figure it out like ya always do.”

“Oh, shut up,” Cavendish sighs, but he’s hiding a smile. “Since when did you start thinking so rationally?”

[villainscomplex]

seek out gold (and sit on it)

i call this one “marimo got massive bartolomeo/bartocav brainrot and speedwrote an entire fic in half a month”  anyway this is fully written and updates on saturdays Now only posting on AO3.

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

i have been neglecting updating this here oops

anyway the new chapter is live on AO3

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

update: decided to stick with sporadic updates here

chapter 11 is live on AO3

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

a day late, but chapter 16 is live on AO3

PREVIEW

Finally, he sighs.

“Are you in love with that Luffy guy?”

Bartolomeo’s entire thought process stutters to a stop.

[villainscomplex]

seek out gold (and sit on it)

i call this one “marimo got massive bartolomeo/bartocav brainrot and speedwrote an entire fic in half a month”  anyway this is fully written and updates on saturdays Now only posting on AO3.

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

i have been neglecting updating this here oops

anyway the new chapter is live on AO3

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

update: decided to stick with sporadic updates here

chapter 11 is live on AO3

PREVIEW

“Fucking- why?”

“I’m cursed, that’s why!” Cavendish chokes out, voice strangled with anger. “I’m cursed, and if I sleep, then Hakuba gets control and he’ll kill anyone I care about. The only way I can stop him is staying awake or completely being unable to move.” 

Bartolomeo’s stomach drops. 

“You weren’t kidnapped,” he realizes aloud, all the pieces slowly coming together.

“I left.” Cavendish confirms.

[villainscomplex]

seek out gold (and sit on it)

i call this one “marimo got massive bartolomeo/bartocav brainrot and speedwrote an entire fic in half a month”  anyway this is fully written and updates on saturdays Now only posting on AO3.

PREVIEW

Keep reading

[villainscomplex]

i have been neglecting updating this here oops

anyway the new chapter is live on AO3

PREVIEW

“So,” Cavendish slings the blood off his blade and bends down to remove a scabbard from one of the crewmen on the ground. “We’re alive.”

Bartolomeo takes a slow, careful breath. Cavendish secures the sheath around his waist and slides the rapier in place there. It looks natural on him, like a missing piece restored.

“It was a compliment,” Bartolomeo croaks.

“Good,” Cavendish smiles pleasantly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

[villainscomplex]

seek out gold (and sit on it)

i call this one “marimo got massive bartolomeo/bartocav brainrot and speedwrote an entire fic in half a month”  anyway this is fully written and updates on saturdays Now only posting on AO3.

PREVIEW

Most tales begin with once upon a time.

This one begins with a bird, small and fleeting as it is, framed against a molten sky. This story begins with a boy and the fate that awaits him; but first and foremost, it begins with a bird.

Nobody pays the little creature any mind as it swoops down over the grasslands surrounding the kingdom. It’s an inconspicuous creature, no larger than a sparrow, flight path sure and true as an arrow. Against the sprawling world below, the bird is but a speck. 

Beneath the bird lies a kingdom. To those who know it, the kingdom is wealthy and vast, sprawling on for miles. There are towns on all sides, prosperous and loud, sweeping into open grasslands and fields of trees and flowers. A passerby might stop to admire the beauty of it all, taking in the blue, cloudless sky overhead. They might think, how peaceful.

[villainscomplex]

this, at least.

hey so anyway yall know how there was that big boom of angsty ship fics right

,,,,,i wanted to write one too and I have no other excuse

!!! MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH !!!

Also on: 

AO3

Wattpad

FFNet

Quotev

----------------------------------------------

In his dreams, Asahi dies slowly.

His body is a mass of static and there is nothing but pain and pain and more pain. He’s vaguely aware of someone, somewhere, calling his name. Asahi, they’re saying, Asahi, please wake up.

And he does.

Asahi jerks awake violently, legs tangled in his blankets and hair plastered to the back of his neck, cold with sweat. He still feels like there’s — what? He doesn’t know the source of the pain, only that it is sheer pain, radiating through the core of his very being. It’d be easy to think it’s something simple, a bullet wound or head trauma, but the way it nestles into his chest and takes root there begs to differ.

In his dreams — nightmares, they prefer — Asahi is made of fear and desperation, of please, no, and the unnerving feeling that he’s forgetting something. There’s always someone with him, always whispering his name, fingers cold on his face.

It’s always the same scene.

He steps into a doorway and panic swells in his chest, but he’s never sure what triggers it. There’s nothing in the room but darkness, and then his feet come out from under him, and he is falling. The ground is far, and he falls forever and ever, until time stops short. He crashes into it in one graceless dive, shatters apart, and reforms at the seams with the sweet familiarity of agony.

He’s sure, with every fiber of his being, that something is missing. He doesn’t know what, or who, only that it is missing and the absence feels like a hole in his chest, a hollow place where the pain doesn’t reach.

Asahi leans forward in his bed, struggling to catch his breath. His hair falls like a curtain around his face. He can’t remember why he keeps it long, only that the idea of cutting it feels wrong, and so he lets it grow.

Suddenly, his bed feels unappealing and cold, and he staggers out of it into the quiet of his apartment.

If his life was a story, the narrator would say something like this — Azumane Asahi is a twenty-six year old man with severe amnesia and a wedding ring on a necklace, to which he doesn’t know the location of the missing pair. And that’s it, they’d say, just a detective with no memory and a lot of anxiety. He doesn’t think he’s important enough of a character to warrant any sort of life story.

His phone is where he left it when he’d arrived home the night prior, tossed onto his side table in a fit of weariness. The screen blinks dimly back at him, still miraculously alive, but only with about six percent to spare and at least three new messages to speak of. They’re all from one of the few people he actually texts, and even without looking at the contact name, Suga’s typing style is distinctive from Daichi or Shimizu’s.

He checks the time in the corner of his screen. It’s nearly five-thirty in the morning, which isn’t a bad time, but it’s still earlier than he normally gets up. Going back to sleep is about the most unappealing thing he can think of right now, so even if he isn’t a morning person, he plugs his phone up, clicks on the shabby TV, and goes to make a pot of coffee, listening to the steady drone of the early weather report.

The ring around his neck is a cold weight against his bare skin, small and heavy against the hollow where his throat meets his clavicle. It rolls and clinks softly against its chain as he moves, a quiet, ever-present reminder of a past he doesn’t remember.

It’s easy to make assumptions. He doesn’t know who has the pair to this ring, only that it feels too important to get rid of, so he keeps it around his neck. For all he knows, he was married once. Someone else had — maybe still has — the pair to this ring. He doesn’t remember being married or who his partner is, but he’s sure they must exist.

Maybe they’d left because he’d forgotten.

Asahi tucks the assumption away before his anxiety can take it and run. He’s got a life now and he can’t go ruining what he has by overthinking whatever he used to have. Lacking the vast majority of his memories hadn’t stopped him from rebuilding his life these past few months, bit by bit.

It’s only been a few months since the accident and even though he doesn’t remember it personally, that’s all everyone keeps referring to it as. The accident, like he’d gone and suffered a massive memory loss by total coincidence.

Asahi kind of hates it. He tries not to think too hard about it.

In hindsight, it hadn’t been an easy recovery. He supposes nobody ever really thinks about what would happen if they lost a chunk of their adult memories and nobody would tell them why. He’d had friends to support him through it, even if he had taken a while to remember the three of them, and because of their support he’d been able to get back on his feet.

He’s still a rookie at this detective work, but sitting down and poring over the facts and figures of the cases he’s investigating is oddly comforting.

Light peeks out from over the horizon as the morning settles in, blanketing the world outside and the living room within in a sheet of pale light. Asahi’s eyes ache from his lack of sleep. The bags beneath them have gotten worse, and he’s sure he’ll inevitably get scolded about them when he sees his friends again.

By the time Asahi arrives at his workplace, the city around him has come to life. It’s never quiet here by any means, but once the sun is up, it seems everyone takes to the streets at once. He leaves early to avoid the rush, but always inevitably catches the start of it and makes it just in time, stumbling into the doorway of the detective agency’s office.

“Hey, Azumane,” the receptionist greets with an easy smile, leaning over the desk to be seen, “just in time. Still relearning the trains?” Asahi isn’t too familiar with Narita, but the man is calm and rarely bothered by high stress situations, and he appreciates the cool head and easy attitude first thing in the morning. He’d been one of the first to make sure Asahi had felt welcomed here, and Asahi is eternally grateful for it.

“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck, averting his eyes, “it’s a lot to get used to all over again. I keep hoping I’ll just jog my memory somehow and miraculously remember.”

Narita laughs. “I’m sure it’s somewhere in that head of yours.”

Asahi doesn’t stick around to chat much longer, heading up to the main office. There’s only two others inside, both at their desks doing very different things. Akaashi, ever studious, is hunched over a case file from a recent completion of his, scribbling away. Kozume, on the other hand, their resident cyber specialist, reclines back in his chair, tapping away at his phone and looking like he’s half asleep. “Azumane,” Kozume yawns, “there’s some files on your desk.” There are in fact — Asahi turns to confirm — files on his desk.

There’s also a boy there.

His back is to Asahi, but he can see the slicked black hair, wild and dark, sharp against the evident paleness of the boy’s skin. The boy visibly straightens when Asahi turns to look, whipping around in his chair.

Okay, no, a man. A grown man.

Asahi feels a little like deer in headlights, caught in the sharp stare of the man’s golden eyes, interrupted only by the equal shock of bleached blond hair in the forefront of his bangs. Asahi feels pinned in place by that unblinking stare, and it takes him a moment to remember to move.

He circles to his desk a little hesitantly, starkly aware of the other man’s stare following him the entire way around. It’s still on him when Asahi seats himself on the opposite side of the desk, and Asahi steels himself to meet it, smiling nervously.

“Hello,” he greets, “I’m Azumane. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting any clients today.” “I’m Noya!” The man declares, gives no further context, and slaps a file down in front of Asahi. “I need you to look into this.”

The words CASE CLOSED stands out in stark red lettering on the front. Asahi resists the urge to frown. It isn’t uncommon for them to receive requests to look into closed cases, but generally speaking, they’re a waste of money and time.

“Listen,” he starts hesitantly, “honestly, I’m still very new at this. Could I recommend you to one of our more experienced investigators?”

Noya shakes his head adamantly, looking appalled at the mere suggestion. “No!” He says, loud enough that Asahi flinches. “This is important to me! You have to do it!”

“I-”

Noya stares at him, lips turned down, eyes wide in a silent plea. Asahi takes the file.

There’s no photo inside, but it's very clearly labeled as involuntary manslaughter. The victim had only been twenty-five, but the details are absolutely minimal. There really won’t be a lot he can do with this, even if he does accept it. He’s sure the case is closed for a reason.

“Look,” he starts, raising his eyes.

Noya is gone.

Asahi leaps out of his seat, file in hand. Noya had just been there. He’s not surprised the man is fast, but Asahi hadn’t even accepted the case yet, and Noya hadn’t even stuck around to answer questions. Asahi races out of the office and into the entry lobby, head swinging from side to side in search of the shorter man.

“Narita,” he asks, leaning over the side of the receptionist’s counter, “did you see where that man went?”

Narita frowns at him. “What man? I haven’t seen anyone pass by.”

“I-” Asahi sighs, dragging his fingers through his hair hard enough to yank it out of his half bun and just resigns himself, tucking the file under his arm. “Nevermind. Thanks anyway.” Narita gives him another odd look as he turns away, returning to the main office. When he enters, Akaashi and Kozume both glance up strangely, matching the look Narita had previously given him, but Kozume loses interest much quicker than he’s gained it, as if this is a perfectly normal, everyday incident. Akaashi’s gaze tracks him all the way back to his desk, and only then does it fall away, leaving Asahi to his own devices. For a long time, Asahi just stares at the file. Case closed stares back at him, bold and red and final.

It isn’t to say that it’s quite uncommon for them to get a closed case to investigate. Generally speaking, it’s recommended to avoid closed cases. More often than not, they lead to dead ends and more broken hearts than when they began. The police may not investigate as much as private detectives, but they weren’t always wrong by any means. But Noya hadn’t given him too much of a choice in the matter, so against his better judgment, Asahi opens the file.

It’s almost pathetically small, three pages at most. There’s no photos, but from what Asahi can gather, it’s a twenty-five year old man who fell victim to an armed robbery incident, whose death was ultimately ruled involuntary manslaughter as a result. The culprit had never been caught, but the man’s partner had suffered some sort of collateral damage. There’s no further information on any of the three; the partner is unnamed and there are no photos of the man or the partner.

There’s nothing here that points to the case being anything other than what the file says, much less any sort of connection. He considers, briefly, that maybe Noya is the partner and wants the man brought to justice, but he doesn’t have any confirmation to this theory. It just seems like a home robbery turned homicide.

It’s essentially a dead end. There’s no address to begin the investigation and no family on the file to contact in regards. If Noya is the partner, Asahi could start there, but if he’d suffered some sort of trauma related to the incident, then Asahi has to take his testimony with a grain of salt. And this is all based on assumption — he doesn’t even know the extent of Noya’s personal involvement with this entire situation.

Noya hadn’t left him any contact details.

The thought strikes him abruptly, and Asahi sighs. This isn’t going to go anywhere without Noya’s cooperation. Asahi hadn’t agreed to investigate it in the first place. Resigned, he closes the file again and slides it underneath a few others on his desk, where it’s quickly forgotten in the wake of the rest of his work.

When he leaves that evening, files tucked away in his bag, the sun hangs low over the horizon, lethargic orange rays reclined across the darkening sky. It’s as beautiful as it is ominous, and Asahi ducks his head to avoid wandering eyes as he hurries to the train station, long coat swishing behind him.

The temperature sinks as it grows late, and despite his scarf, Asahi’s face burns with chill by the time he gets to the stairs leading down into the train station. People swarm around him, talking and huddling, faces as red as his own and stark with the relief of getting somewhere decently warmer.

Close enough to the rails to actually get on the train, but not close enough to get trampled by those trying to get good seating, Asahi tucks his chin into his scarf and takes a steadying breath.

He wonders if he was always an anxious person like this; had too much noise always been overwhelming to him? Had he ever walked with his head up, unconcerned about the opinions of those around him? Was this ever present bundle of nerves set deep in the square of his chest just a side effect of a tragic accident that nobody will tell him about?

He slides his thumb over the crest of the wedding ring on his necklace, a motion that feels like nothing but pure instinct, and then nearly yanks it clean off his neck when a hand grips his elbow, hard, and he flinches.

Asahi looks down.

Staring back up at him indignantly, lips fixed into a frown and golden eyes wide, looking as if he’s entirely unbothered by the cold despite being in nothing but a t-shirt and basketball shorts, is Noya.

“Azumane-san!”

Asahi is unbelievably shaken right now. After all, the odds that Noya would show up at the same train station as him were slim, even for this side of the city, but here he is, grip hard on Asahi’s elbow. If Asahi had gears in his head, they’d be stalling right now, and the little embodiment of his consciousness would be trying to restart it to no avail.

When the wires finally reconnect, Asahi gasps. “Why don’t you have a jacket?”

The words come out more demanding than he intended, but it’s too late to apologize, so instead, Asahi strips off his overcoat, and then the coat beneath it. Goosebumps prickle over the nape of his neck where it’s exposed to the cold, and he hurriedly yanks the long coat back on, handing the other off to Noya. Noya, who has since let go, looks a little surprised as he accepts it.

“I’m fine!” Noya huffs, but he pulls the jacket on regardless.

The sleeves slip past his fingertips, effectively dwarfing him. Asahi thinks it would be rather comical if he wasn’t so upset at this precise moment, but even swallowed up by Asahi’s undercoat, Noya feels like a force to be reckoned with, a storm lying in wait.

Asahi can’t put his finger on it, but Noya’s brash personality seems familiar, somehow. Mentally, he goes through his limited list of friends. Sugawara fits the bill closest, but even his chaos is of a different sort.

The train whistle breaks him out of his thoughts. He spots the lights as it barrels down the tunnel.

“Have you solved the case yet?” Noya asks, gaze still fixed on Asahi, unwavering.

Asahi frowns at him. “Listen,” he begins, turning his gaze back to Noya.

His words die in his throat. Noya stares back at him, eyes glittering in the faint light of the underground station, wild hair stirred around his face by the gust of cold air the train brings with it. The doors hiss open, but Asahi doesn’t move to get on yet. People stream by them on their way on or off the platform.

He can’t say no. He doesn’t know what it is, but Asahi is suddenly resigned to seeing this through. Noya’s eyes are intense and focused, hard with determination and a type of fire that Asahi can’t remember ever seeing before. He can’t say no.

“I haven’t,” he says, “but I’m going to investigate it as best I can.”

Noya’s grin makes him think that perhaps this is the right decision after all.

The train whistles again. Asahi starts, whirling back around to the platform. Oh no, the train’s going to leave.

“Are you-” He begins, glancing back to Noya, intending to ask if he’s getting on the same train.

Noya is gone. Asahi stares incredulously at the spot where the man had been, dwarfed in Asahi’s coat. He turns, glancing a full circle around himself, trying to spot that shock of blond in the crowd, but no, Noya is gone.

Maybe he got on the train.

Asahi follows suit, tucking his overcoat a little tighter around him as the doors slide shut. The people on the platform all blur together in a mass of color as the train pulls away, but Asahi swears he catches the piercing stare of golden eyes. It’s gone before he can think too hard about it, and Asahi spends the train ride and subsequent walk home staring into space. He hadn’t gotten Noya’s contact info.

“I’m home,” he says to no one as he opens his door and steps in, taking his shoes off.

Maybe he should get a dog.

Sighing heavily, Asahi drops his bag onto the floor by the door, where it tips to the side and lets a few papers and files slide halfway out. He pays it little mind, figuring he can think about it later, and makes his way down the narrow corridor into the bedroom at the back.

It’s sheer muscle memory that gets him through his nightly routine, and by the time he lets his hair down and flops into bed, he’s too exhausted to think. The somber tendrils of heavy sleep drag him deep into the sheets.

He dreams. (He has nightmares.)

Wake up, wake up, wake up, the voice is saying. Asahi, please wake up. Please don’t leave me. Please, no. Please, no.

This time, when Asahi jerks awake, the sun is still low below the horizon and his phone reads 4:36 A.M, but there’s no chance of him going back to sleep so he dons a hoodie and decides to do something with himself. In the end, Asahi goes for a run. It’s been a while since he’s just gone out like this, so he takes the short route that loops through the backside of a local park. Asahi jogs what he can, but it quickly becomes clear that he isn’t nearly as in shape as he clearly had been once. He can tell he used to be muscular and healthy prior to the accident, but he’s hardly been focused on maintaining that post memory loss. Still, running feels natural, so he tries to keep it up.

He runs into Noya again. Asahi rounds the bend, huffs of breath forming white clouds in the chilly morning air. There’s only a handful of other souls up and about this early, and from what Asahi can tell, they’re all out running too. It’s a nice change of pace to get his mind off of everything, but it’s clear the universe has other plans. As he nears the park’s massive lake, he spots a figure sitting right at the bank of it, leaning precariously over the water.

Even from this distance and without his glasses, he recognizes Noya’s wild hair paired with the white t-shirt and black shorts combo. Noya’s back is to him, but he visibly straightens as the sound of Asahi’s footsteps approach, head twisting around to fix those ever startling eyes on the taller man. “Azumane,” his eyebrows pinch, “what are you doing here?” There’s this nagging feeling in his chest. It strikes him as odd again; something about Noya is so unnervingly familiar to him, but he can’t put his finger on it. He’s sure if they had known each other prior to his memory loss then someone as headstrong as Noya seems to be would have said something about it by now, but Noya doesn’t seem bothered like Asahi is. He shakes it off.

Something seems off. Noya is quieter, more pensive. His gaze has returned to the surface of the lake immediately after confirming that he knows the person approaching him. It’s a strange change from the loud, fierce boy Asahi has started to know him as. “Noya,” he greets softly, joining him carefully by the water. “I was out for a run. Are you okay? Aren’t you cold?” “Oh,” Noya seems to remember something, “I forgot your jacket. Sorry.” Asahi shakes his head. “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known I was going to come running. It isn’t like I’ve done this in a while.” Noya is staring at him again, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He’s frowning — it’s only a faint, downward quirk of the lips, but it seems so out of place on Noya’s features that it catches Asahi off guard. A matching frown slips onto his face.

“Have you made any progress?” Noya asks suddenly, peering up at Asahi intently. “With the case, I mean.” “Noya, it’s only been a night,” Asahi reminds him gently. “I’ll look into it more later, but nothing’s changed from when you asked me yesterday.” “Yesterday?” Noya echoes, as if confused. “Oh… Right. When you gave me the jacket. Okay.” “Are you sure you’re okay?” Asahi persists. “I’m fine! Listen, I’ve gotta go, ‘kay? I’ll catch you again sometime soon.” Noya takes off before Asahi can so much as consider asking about contact information. At this rate, he’s going to be stuck only contacting Noya whenever they happen to run into each other in town. Belatedly, near the tail end of his run, he realizes that Noya must live nearby, to have been at the park.

So why had he been all the way across town yesterday? Asahi glances back, as if the answer will appear behind him. The cold wind replies, whispering through the bare branches of the trees. He just can’t shake the feeling that something is too familiar about Noya to forget. Maybe it’s just the man’s strange tendencies or the way he seems so desperate for the case to be solved as soon as possible, but Asahi just can’t get rid of this feeling. He doesn’t know what it is yet, only that it feels too important to completely dismiss a third time.

So this time, he tucks it away in the back of his mind for safekeeping.

⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤

“Oi, Azumane,” Kozume leans around his laptop, “what was that new file you got? An investigation?”

Asahi starts at the sound of his voice. After the two loudest members of their agency had gone off on lunch, the room had finally become quiet enough for Asahi to focus on his research. His desk is in clutters, public records scattered across the surface, laptop balanced precariously on the corner and held in place only by half of a large, opened book. Asahi is in the middle of rereading the case file when Kozume speaks up. He's so focused that, in his surprise, he nearly takes out his laptop himself. Kozume just lifts one disinterested brow, strands of dark hair slipping back into their usual place over his face. “Uh,” Asahi begins, eloquently, “something like that. Client wants me to look into a closed case. I think he’s probably got some pretty personal roots in it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him it isn’t a good idea to reopen old wounds.” “You’re too nice, Azumane-san.” Akaashi remarks from his desk without looking up. “Sometimes, it’s best to put a stop to it before it can start.” “Then again,” Kozume muses, “I guess we are getting paid for this, huh?”

They lapse into a mutual silence again.

Asahi feels like there are still eyes on him, but Akaashi is still looking at the paperwork on his desk and Kozume has returned to his laptop screen. The rest of the employees aren’t here, and Narita is presumably still at the front desk. With a faint frown, Asahi shakes the feeling away and returns his attention to the files.

His information is severely limited. That’s the biggest issue. If there had been an address on the file he could have started his investigation there, but Noya would be the easier source. The only issue with that is that Asahi still hasn’t gotten Noya’s contact information to ask him about it. That being said, he’s not even sure if Noya actually knows anything or if this just happens to be a personal investment of his. Asahi isn’t in the habit of prying about people’s personal connections to a case. As long as he can get their information and go on about his business, he’s content, but Noya is so forthright and intense that Asahi can’t help but be curious.

It bothers him, but he doesn’t know why.

“Oh,” says Kozume, voice breaking into Asahi’s thought process abruptly again, “another robbery. I wonder if it’s a chain?”

When Asahi looks back up, Kozume is still looking at his laptop, but now he’s leaning closer to the screen, visibly reading something. He turns away and wheels his swivel chair over to the side table by the door to retrieve the remote.

“Last I heard, there wasn’t any correlation between the places that were being hit.” Akaashi replies, gaze lifting from his papers. “They’re thinking it’s separate cases, but who knows. The police don’t read too into situations if the evidence is obvious.” “Lazy asses,” Kozume scoffs, clicking through channels on the overhead TV.

“Robberies?” Asahi speaks up, confused.

He hasn’t been actively keeping up with the news outside of early weather reports recently, a little more concerned with his own issues and his work. It’s more than enough to balance work and the whole memory loss thing, and while he definitely should be better about keeping up with the rest of the world, it hasn’t been his main concern as of late.

Kozume settles on a news channel. The news anchor is in the middle of reporting on the subject at hand — another local robbery. It’s the third in the past two weeks, but there’s no evidence to connect it to the other two. This one had targeted a tiny, one bedroom home on the city outskirts. Asahi frowns at the news coverage. He doesn’t understand why anyone would target a place where there was unlikely to be anything to be gained, but he feels bad for the homeowner. The newscast says they came out undamaged since they weren’t home at the time, but nonetheless, he understands the feeling of having your life uprooted suddenly.

Asahi shakes his head and returns his attention to the files before him, scribbling notes down on things to look into further and potential leads. He’ll have to remember to find Noya again and get his contact information this time. Noya is the best lead he has at this point, and hopefully he can get something out of the other man to get him somewhere in this seemingly dead end case.

In the background, the television drones on.

When evening gives way to the end of his work day, Asahi finds himself searching the rush hour crowd for the tuft of electric blond that he’s becoming so familiar with. He can’t figure out why he’s trying to find Noya here; after all, he’d come to the conclusion that he lives on the other side of town, so he doubts he’ll see him here. On the other hand, it’s possible Noya works over here too. It’d be a strange coincidence for him to be in the same working and living situation as Asahi himself, but it’d make sense as to why Noya had come to their agency in particular. It's possible that it's also the opposite way around, with Noya living here and working on the other side of town. All of the facts Asahi knows check out with one of those theories; it’d explain why Noya was at the train station, too.

But by the time he gets to the station, he hasn’t spotted Noya anywhere. Even amongst the people waiting on the platform, he can’t see the wild, dark hair, and there’s a pang of disappointment in his chest. He tries to ignore it, but it’s a persistent feeling, and more surprisingly, one that doesn’t feel new. He can’t imagine forgetting someone like Noya, but he’d forgotten someone like Suga already, so his memory loss isn’t discriminating.

The train whistles a warning. Asahi startles, hurrying on instinctively. He hadn’t even realized the train had pulled up. He looks for Noya one more time, but upon confirming that the other man is nowhere to be seen, averts his gaze to his feet. The train doors hiss shut around him, before it lurches into motion, pulling away from the platform.

It’s strange, he thinks, how lonely the platform looks disappearing behind them.

When the train comes to a hissing stop at his destination platform, Asahi’s phone begins to vibrate aggressively against his thigh. He waits until he’s clear of all the people to check it, unlocking the screen to several tests and a missed call from Suga. Just as he’s going to check the texts, Suga’s name lights up his screen again. Asahi nearly drops his phone in his haste to answer the call.

“Asahi!” Sugawara practically yells. “Have you been keeping up with the news?”

Asahi slowly brings the phone back to his ear as he walks, having held it away in his haste to avoid having his eardrums blown out.

“The news?” He echoes. “Like the robberies?”

“Yeah! Apparently, there was another one! I guess the person tried to fight back and get this - they ended up in the hospital with multiple gunshot wounds.”

Asahi grimaces. If all of these robberies are connected, then it could be a problem. Generally speaking, most robbers would flee if they were caught or met with resistance, but if this one had no qualms with hurting people, it could get dirty. Asahi is hoping they aren’t connected, but it’s starting to look doubtful. He’ll have to catch up on the situation when he gets home.

“That’s-”

Asahi cut off, turning his head to follow the abrupt streak of color that had caught his eye. He’s a few blocks from his apartment, at best, but now he turns around entirely, gaze searching. He spots it again just in time to watch it vanish through the door of a tiny coffee shop. Asahi hesitates.

“Asahi?” Sugawara calls from his phone. “Hellooo? Earth to Asahi! What happened?” “S-Sorry, Suga,” Asahi says quickly, feet already guiding him towards the building, “I have to go. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

“Huh? Hold on, wh-”

The line goes dead as Asahi jabs the end call button, shoving his phone unceremoniously back into his pocket as he enters the cafe. The bell chimes gently overhead as he pushes the door open, and someone at the front calls out a greeting that he only half hears. He’s busy thinking about how Suga will be upset with him later for hanging up so abruptly; he’s thinking that maybe he should feel a little worse about that than he does, and it has him wondering if he’s less of a friend for it. He’s busy thinking about how he’s sure to get an earful later, but his body is moving across the cafe, toward a booth in the corner where he can see the backside of dark, wild hair, and the small flick of a tag sticking up from the inside of a white t-shirt.

The man in the booth lifts his head when Asahi rounds the table, piercing gaze fixing onto the detective. It’s as if he comes back to earth all at once, awareness lighting his eyes and his expression picking up in something vaguely resembling surprise. “Asahi!” He half yells, slamming his palms into the table and standing in one motion.

Asahi flinches at the abrupt shout and one of the employees glances their way. Ducking his head bashfully, Asahi makes himself as small as possible as he slides into the booth across from Noya, reaching out to gesture Noya back into his own seat. Preferably, he thinks, as quietly as possible.

Luckily, Noya drops unceremoniously back into his seat, staring intensely at Asahi.

“What are you doing here?” He demands.

“I…” Asahi grimaces, knowing how strange this is going to sound, “I saw you coming in. You never gave me any sort of contact, so I haven’t been able to reach you for anything regarding the case.”

Noya visibly straightens. “Have you figured out something new?”

“Well, not exactly, but-”

“Oh,” Noya continues, cutting him off, “I don’t have a phone.”

Well, that certainly threw a wrench in things, didn’t it? It’s just Asahi’s luck, he supposes. Still, he’s got to figure out some way to keep up contact with Noya, since he’s Asahi’s only sure link to the case.

His phone buzzes incessantly in his pocket.

“Okay, then take mine,” Asahi grabs a napkin from the table, fishing a pen from the front breast pocket of his jacket. “And if you can, just let me know if you come across anything new. Can we meet again sometime here to sit down and talk? Like Friday?” Noya takes the napkin and with surprising tenderness, folds it, and tucks it into the pocket of his black basketball shorts. He’s staring at Asahi still, but Asahi can’t tell what he’s thinking about.

“Okay,” Noya says, “Friday.”

And there it is again; Asahi meets his gaze and he feels like he’s missing something, like there’s a piece here that he should be aware of. He can’t shake it, that feeling that he just knows Noya from somewhere, from before all this.

“Noya,” he breathes, “have we met before? Before you came in with the case?”

Noya scrutinizes him for a long moment, almost unresponsive, as if the question hadn’t even registered to him. There’s something off about the entire moment, the motionless state of someone who feels like he should always be moving. Slowly, his lips pinch into a frown, just a little downward tilt that looks so off on his features. His expression darkens, hooded over like a shadow fell across him.

He looks unsure. He looks scared.

It’s only for a moment, so quick that Asahi is sure it must have been his imagination because then Noya is laughing, loud and rambunctious and more like the one that seems familiar to Asahi.

“No way!” He decides. “You must be imagining things, Azumane-san! There’s no way you’d forget someone as cool as me!”

Asahi feels like his veins have frozen over. He’s cold down to the bone.

“Of course,” he agrees, smiling shakily, “that’s true.”

There’s a seed of doubt rooting itself in his chest, and Asahi is too scared to try to figure out the root of it.

He stands again, bidding Noya a good night, and hurries out the door before the other man gets another word in edgewise, but he feels Noya’s gaze follow him out the door. His phone vibrates in his pocket again, and he takes it out, preparing himself for the earful he’s going to get.

Something is reassuring about Suga’s ranting on the other end. It gets him home.

When he looks over the case again that night, he writes details about the recent robberies down on a notebook next to it. He gathers what he can from the news and more from the internet. Tomorrow, he’ll get more info on it from Kozume, and Friday, he’ll get what he can from Noya. He doesn’t know yet if he’s making progress here, but he’s hoping for the best.

At this point, it’s all he can do.

It isn’t until he’s getting ready for bed, braiding his hair back out of his face, that the thought strikes him. He’s thinking about the tiny coffee shop, about the bell over the door, about the way Noya had called him Asahi. He has the distinctive memory of introducing himself only as Azumane.

So where had Noya gotten his given name?

⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤

“You look different,” Noya remarks.

Asahi feels like he’s having deja vu. He hardly knows where the week has gone, and now he’s back at the tiny coffee shop with Noya. They’re seated in the same booth as before. Noya’s shirt tag is sticking out. Asahi has his hair loose.

“It’s the hair,” they say, in sync, and Noya grins when Asahi cracks a smile.

“Finally!” He laughs. “I was starting to think you couldn’t smile properly! You’re so nervous all the time that I was starting to wonder how you’d ended up in this line of work.”

Asahi tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “Well, I’m sure it probably wasn’t my dream career, but I don’t remember enough about my old life to know how true that is. I guess it seems like a pretty unpredictable career, but it’s routine enough to be comforting.”

Noya frowns at him. “Whaddya mean you don’t remember?” Asahi winces. Outside of the fact that nobody else wants to discuss the accident, Asahi tries not to talk about it too much. Trying to remember gives him an intense migraine, and he hates the pitying looks he gets from it. He hates feeling helpless, and there’s this part of him that wouldn’t be able to handle it if Noya looked at him like that.

“I had an accident a while back,” Asahi replies vaguely, waving one hand dismissively, “nothing important.”

Noya’s watching him like he doesn’t believe him. Asahi avoids his gaze; he has the distinct feeling that Noya will see right through him otherwise.

“Okay,” Noya finally says, “then what about that necklace you’re always playing with? The ring. Are you married or something?”

Asahi doesn’t even realize he’s messing with it until Noya points it out. He’s busted, caught like a deer in headlights under Noya’s drilling questions. His words die in his throat, lips parted but nothing coming out.

I don’t know, he thinks, clenching his fist around the ring. He shoves it back into his shirt and grips the edge of the table, focusing on keeping his hands there. “No,” he manages, smile tight again, “but it doesn’t matter. We’re here to talk about the case, remember?”

Noya’s gaze flicks down, but he doesn’t push it.

“Right.”

Noya talks. It’s not all connected, more stream of thought and dropping details as they come to him, but Asahi listens. He takes notes, putting things that he knows already on one page and things he’s hearing for the first time on another. Some of Noya’s tales have nothing to do with the case, but Asahi lets them slide, and then he realizes that Noya hasn’t been talking about the case for a while.

But here’s Asahi, pen down and still listening. There’s something about Noya’s energy that’s so easy to get wrapped up in, and Asahi hadn’t even realized he was in it until it was too late. Maybe it’s the way Noya feels familiar to him, like second nature, or the way he’s sure he must know Noya from before, but the sensation is contagious, quick like electricity and quiet like a thief.

“Azumane-san?”

Noya’s voice breaks into his thoughts again. Asahi starts, focusing back on the task at hand. He doesn’t know when he’d stopped writing, or when the case discussion had ended and the casual talk had begun, but he does realize, belatedly, that they never got their coffee. The baristas bring them out here, he’d noticed, so it strikes him as a little strange.

“Sorry,” Asahi tells him, “I just realized we don’t have our drinks.”

As if on cue, Noya’s gaze moves from Asahi to the woman approaching their table. Asahi tears his gaze away from the man in front of him to focus on her as well, putting on his most polite smile as she sets the coffee down in front of him.

“Here you go,” she says, “sorry about the wait.”

She turns to leave, and Asahi realizes that she’s only brought his drink.

“Sorry, ma’am?” He calls quickly. “What about my fri-”

He turns to gesture at Noya and falters. The seat across from him is empty; Noya is gone. The employee gives him a strange look, glancing between him and the empty booth across from him. Asahi swallows his sentence back down, where it feels like a thick lump in his throat.

“Nevermind,” he says instead, “thank you.”

She glances at the booth opposite of him again and then seems to simply accept it as strange, for she turns and heads back to the front, leaving Asahi alone with the ghost of Noya’s electric presence.

He ends up getting a to-go cup for his coffee.

Asahi doesn’t know how he got back to his apartment, only that he gets there and he comes back to awareness when he’s unlocking his front door. He falters, hand on his doorknob, gaze fixed on the crook between his thumb and his forefinger. Everything comes back all at once. Is this the right thing to do? Should he have just followed the advice and refused the case upfront? He doesn’t even know when Noya had slipped out. Had it been the brief moment he’d turned his attention to the girl at the shop? Asahi hadn't even heard the bell.

Why hadn’t Noya said anything?

Asahi is starting to think he’s getting too ahead of himself, thinking one normal conversation and a borrowed jacket makes them friends or something. But there’s the thought he’s been hesitant to admit to himself; he wants to be friends with Noya. Something about the other man makes him feel comfortable, regardless of his eccentric nature, and he’s starting to think that maybe Noya was right about his career choice being the wrong one for him.

He can’t afford to get attached to every other person he meets in this line of work. Noya is the first, but Asahi can’t say for sure if he’ll be the last, and Asahi doesn’t even know when the line in the sand got washed away. He doesn’t know if it happened halfway through their conversation or the first time he’d realized something about Noya was too familiar to ignore. Still, Noya had been right about one thing: there’s no way Asahi could have forgotten someone like him.

It’s the only reason Asahi is hesitant to let the feeling of familiarity go.

He realizes with a start that he’s still standing outside, so he pushes the door open and ducks into his apartment. Whatever he ends up deciding to do here, he’s got all the information he thinks he’s going to get from Noya. For now, he needs to crack down on the case. The longer he drags this on, the worse it will get for the both of them. He wants to give Noya the best chance he has of moving on from this, and the only way to do that is to solve it as soon as possible.

Asahi takes his shoes off at the entryway and heads into the living room, setting his bag down next to the low table in front of his couch. He yanks his hair up into a half-hearted bun and collects his notes and files, adding them to the growing pile on the table. Clicking the television on for background noise, he gets to work sorting. The details are still minimal, and the progress looks minimal, but it’s better than nothing. Besides, there’s still that robber at large, and while Asahi has no surefire proof to connect the two outside of a gut feeling, he’s learned very quickly to trust his gut.

He glances up at the TV just in time to catch a glimpse of a reporter standing in front of a house, door caved in and front yard taped off by obnoxious yellow crime scene signs. It catches his attention immediately, so he glances down at the caption.

Armed robbery. Voluntary manslaughter.

Asahi’s heart jumps to his throat. His eyes dart down to the file. What were the odds?

What if it hadn’t been involuntary? The file states that the person had been found dead at the scene, a victim of multiple gunshot wounds from a robbery gone wrong. Robbery. Check. Armed suspect. Check. Had they considered a lack of qualms against hurting people? Asahi flips his notebook to a fresh page and begins charting all the locations the robber had hit thus far. Maybe there’s some sort of pattern they’re overlooking, a rhyme or reason to the places the robber is targeting.

His facts are minimal but sure.

The robber only targets houses, never businesses. The types of houses vary. No known pattern thus far.

The robber is armed and dangerous. Generally, there’s minimal damage to any people they happen to rob, but when those people get in the way or fight back, it’s a different story. There have been people both hospitalized and killed.

The robber has no qualms about killing people who got in the way.

Asahi stares at the page. Finally, at the bottom, he writes Noya? beneath his list of facts. He doesn’t know what the precise connection is with Noya’s case in all of this, but if he can predict where the robber is going to strike next, maybe there’s something to be found there. That’s only if the police themselves don’t beat him there first. Either way, hopefully, some sort of confession would come out and Asahi could call this closed properly. If this is unrelated, then he’s going to have to think of something else fast.

It’s nearly four in the morning when he finally talks himself into going to sleep, but it’s restless at best, and he rises early. He’s off on weekends, so they’re his only opportunity to go get things done if he doesn’t want to go right after work. The case weighs heavily on his thoughts for the entirety of his morning run. When he passes the lake he’d run into Noya at that time, he pauses, only for a moment, to glance around, but Noya isn’t there.

Asahi keeps running, but he’s starting to feel less like he’s keeping active and more like he’s trying to get away from something. He feels like he’s running away from a lot of things, as of late. It can’t be helped.

Azumane Asahi is a coward, he tells himself, and this time he doesn’t think it’s a lie at all.

The next time he sees Noya, it’s on the same route and nearly a week later. Asahi finds himself searching the route consistently without even knowing if Noya even lives in the area, hoping to catch some sort of glimpse of the other man. He hasn’t heard anything from Noya since the day at the coffee shop, and he’s starting to grow a little concerned.

His traitorous heart says something else, but Asahi tries not to listen too hard to things made of glass.

There’s rustling overhead when Asahi passes beneath a tree. It’s followed by a loud yowl, and it’s this that makes Asahi falter in his steps. He pauses, turning his head up to squint into the branches. The early morning sun is bright, near blinding, but the shadow that covers Asahi blocks it out.

He sees the little tag sticking out of the collar of the white shirt first, and then the outstretched arm, pale and skinny, reaching out to a higher branch. Asahi can mostly only see the person’s silhouette, but he knows that figure anywhere.

“Noya?” He calls up hesitantly.

Golden eyes fix on him immediately. Noya looks vaguely surprised, arm still outstretched, lips parted into a perfect little circle. There’s a cat a few branches up from his perch, a skinny little tabby with all of its fur puffed out. Its teeth are bared at the other man, a low growl rising in his throat.

Asahi hasn’t ever seen a cat react like that to someone. Usually, the strays around this area are calm, used to the joggers and families who come through the park trails all the time. He frowns a little at the sight, putting one hand on his hip and using the other to shield his eyes as he peers up.

“Oh,” says Noya, “Hey, Azumane. Fancy seeing you here.”

“I run here every morning now,” Asahi frowns, “you already knew that. What are you doing up there?”

Noya gestures to the cat, who swings at his moving hand. “I came up to save him, but he won’t let me anywhere near him. I think I’m just gonna grab him and deal with the consequences later.”

“What.” Asahi intones.

Noya reaches for the cat.

“What?” Asahi repeats. “Wait, no-”

Noya stretches out of his crouch and snatches the cat in one quick motion. The tabby immediately begins yelling, claws sinking wherever they can reach. Noya yelps, and then takes a surprised step back into mid-air. Asahi shouts. All at once, Noya and the cat come crashing down through the branches, and Asahi slides down on his knees beneath them, breath leaving his body as they collide.

Asahi groans softly from his place on the ground. Noya scrambles off of him, eyes wide. He’s still holding the cat, who looks shaken, but overall unharmed.

“Asahi!” Noya gasps. “Are you okay? Shit, I’m sorry!”

Asahi waves him off with one hand, sitting up slowly. His torso aches where he’d ungracefully caught them, but at least they seem unharmed. His hair falls loose around his shoulders, and he looks around for the tie, only to find it snapped on the ground. It’d been fraying, so he isn’t surprised, but it’s still a little inconvenient.

“It’s okay,” he manages, when he finally catches his breath, “are you two okay?”

Noya beams, holding the cat up victoriously. “We’re totally fine!”

The cat bites Noya’s hand. Noya drops the tabby, and he bolts without so much as a glance back. The short man sulks as he stares after the vanishing animal, crossing his arms over his chest. There are claw marks down the length of his forearms and branches still stuck in his black basketball shorts.

“Rude,” Noya says, getting up.

He offers a hand to Asahi, but Asahi, a little doubtful that Noya can lift him, stands on his own.

“You should be more careful,” he says, frowning.

“I had it handled!”

“You fell out of a tree.”

Noya purses his lips. “You know. Fair.” He sticks his index finger out as if to agree that Asahi has a point. “You got me there.”

“How did you even get up there?” Asahi asks, gazing up at the tree.

There aren’t any visible branches that Noya could have used to climb, and Asahi has to admit that even with his height, he would have been hard-pressed to reach the lowest ones. There’s no way to get a handhold on the trunk, either, so he’s not sure how Noya got up there to begin with.

Noya shrugs. “I climbed? The cat couldn’t get down so I went up to help him.”

Asahi sighs. “Okay, Noya. My apartment isn’t far from here, so let me at least treat the scratches. It’d be bad if you got something.”

Noya hesitates, but then he looks down, inspects his arms, and grimaces a little.

“Okay, lead the way.”

Asahi tucks his hair behind his ears and turns, starting at a steady pace back up the pathway. Noya keeps at his heels, carefree and cheerful as he turns his arms over, inspecting his new battle scars. It’s almost endearing, Asahi dares to think, but he’s still not over how the cat had acted with Noya. Asahi is sure Noya isn’t a bad person, but he’s never seen a reaction like that in the months he’s been running here.

He frowns back as if the tree itself will give him answers, but it stands tall and silent, shadowed against the pale blue sky.

When they climb the steps to Asahi’s apartment, the realization hits him like a bullet. He’s bringing Noya into his apartment. How had they gotten here? Is his apartment even clean? It’s so plain that he doesn’t know what Noya is going to think about it. Had he done the dishes already or were they still sitting in the sink?

Anxiety settles in like a second skin, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. They’re already at the door and Noya is looking up at him expectantly, waiting for him to unlock it. Asahi tries to hide the way his hands shake as he puts the key in the lock and opens it, letting Noya into the dark entryway.

Noya kicks off his shoes at the entrance, and Asahi follows suit, stepping in ahead of the other man. The sink is clean. The living room has a few books on the table and stray papers from his brainstorming session the other night, but otherwise it isn’t unacceptable. He flicks the light on and crosses to the table, shoving the papers messily together.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company,” he says, “make yourself at home and I’ll grab my first aid kit.”

Noya plops onto the couch, looking around like a curious child. Asahi feels strange having someone over like this. He seldom has company, especially new company, and he feels like he’s being assessed for some sort of test. Clutching the papers to his chest, Asahi hurries into his room for the first aid kit in his bathroom.

Noya is still sitting on the couch when Asahi returns. His gaze is fixed on a photo hanging on the wall. It’s of Asahi, fresh out of the hospital, Suga and Daichi standing just behind him in the frame. Shimizu had been the one to take it, and it’s one of the earliest things he still remembers. Noya frowns at it a little, like he’s struggling to think about something, and Asahi just figures he must have zoned out.

“Noya?” He says as he nears.

Noya straightens, almost imperceptibly, turning his gaze to Asahi as the other man crouches in front of him, opening the first aid kit and setting it aside on the table. Noya gets the hint and offers out his arms while Asahi prepares a cotton pad for cleaning the scratches.

“Ouch,” Noya hisses once Asahi starts dabbing over them.

Asahi shakes his head, holding Noya by the wrist to keep his arm steady.

“Are those your friends?” Noya asks suddenly.

Asahi glances up at him, and then back at the photo. “Yeah,” he says, turning his gaze back onto his task. “The one with the silver hair is Suga. The dark-haired one is Daichi. Our other friend, Shimizu, took the photo, but she’s not very fond of being in them. They were there with me when I was in the hospital for a while.”

“What were you there for?”

Asahi grimaces, remembering why he’d avoided the subject the last time he’d talked to Noya. “Uh,” he starts hesitantly.

He can feel Noya’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. Asahi gets the feeling that he’ll spill everything if he does, so he stubbornly keeps his focus on treating Noya’s scratches.

“It’s okay, Azumane-san,” Noya laughs, “you don’t have to tell me. I was just being nosy.”

Asahi exhales, a little relieved. He wraps up Noya’s first arm, having finished treating the scratches there. Moving onto the second one, Asahi grabs a fresh cotton pad. He frowns as he sets back to work.

“Noya,” he starts, “where did you go, the other day? At the cafe, I mean?”

Noya stiffens a little under his grip.

“Sorry about that,” the other man mumbles, “I had an emergency I had to handle, so…”

“Oh,” says Asahi, unconvinced, “okay. I was just worried… You just up and vanished without saying anything.”

Noya doesn’t go into any more detail, and Asahi doesn’t push it. He gets the feeling Noya isn’t telling the whole truth, but he’s not going to try to force it out. He has his own secrets, and he’s sure Noya has plenty himself. Despite seeming like a very open person, he’s come to notice that Noya is strange, like he’s never quite there most of the time, and the times that he is, he seems so full of life that he’s ready to burst with it.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Noya’s voice is painfully soft.

Asahi’s heart aches. He doesn’t know why that gentle voice hurts, only that it does something strange to him. He catches himself holding his breath, as if even that will break this moment. He knows better. He knows better. He doesn’t know Noya, and Noya doesn’t know him. They’re client and employee, nothing more.

Asahi doesn’t even know himself. How could he even hope to let someone else know him?

“It’s okay,” Asahi gets out, but his voice sounds foreign to himself like it’s coming from someone else speaking in his place instead of him.

Something about the intimacy of the moment makes Asahi feel like he’s an outsider, watching his own hands and fingers tenderly take care of Noya’s newly acquired scratches. He knows there’s more on the man’s face, but he’s scared to raise his gaze. He’s scared that whatever is happening is going to shatter the moment they make eye contact. Asahi is going to realize it’s all in his head, or Noya is going to realize it’s strange for him to be in what is essentially a stranger’s house.

He feels like he knows Noya. The feeling won’t go away, but Noya has told him that he’s sure they’ve never met. Asahi couldn’t forget someone like him, and Asahi is inclined to agree. He’s stalling now, and he knows it, and he’s sure Noya knows it, but neither of them say anything about it as Asahi cleans over the scars a second, and then a third time.

Finally, he bandages the second arm. Noya’s skin is cold beneath his grip, freezing like the other man has been standing in negative temperatures for hours. Asahi knows this isn’t the case, so he assumes Noya must just run cold in comparison to Asahi himself. Noya seems unbothered, either way.

“Thanks,” Noya finally breaks the silence.

Asahi dares to raise his gaze. Noya’s eyes are trained on him, sharp and focused with such intense clarity that Asahi is momentarily taken aback. Noya looks as if he’s a page ahead of Asahi, waiting for him to catch up. Asahi isn’t sure if he should, much less if he wants to.

“Well,” he replies, averting his gaze to get another cotton pad, “I wasn’t just going to leave you after I watched it happen. I don’t mean to be rude, but you seem like you’d neglect taking care of them.”

Noya grins crookedly in the corner of his vision. “You’re right,” he says, “I would. But that’s not all I was thanking you for.”

Asahi pauses, mid-turn, pad raised to start in on the scratches on Noya’s face. He blinks, confused. “Huh?”

“That was for everything,” Noya continues. “I know this case isn’t easy on you. I’m sorry I dumped it on you, but something told me you’re the only one who can handle it, and I always listen to my instinct. It hasn’t steered me wrong yet. So I was saying thank you for putting up with all of this.”

Oh, Asahi thinks, and then says, “Oh.”

Noya laughs. “Oh?”

“Sorry. No, wait. I mean… You don’t need to thank me.” Asahi reaches out, carefully starting to clean the scratches across Noya’s cheek.

“Ow,” Noya says, again.

“Sorry,” Asahi frowns, knowing there isn’t much he can do about the pain.

“It’s okay. I got myself into this, so I’ll tough it out!” The golden-eyed boy declares.

Asahi smiles to himself. Noya’s energy is near contagious, and he’s just about forgotten about his previous anxiety of having the other man in his house. Noya seems nonchalant and uncaring, like he doesn’t care to judge how Asahi lives either way.

“There,” Asahi says, putting bandages over the last few scratches. “Done.”

Noya gives him a double thumbs-up, grinning so widely it looks painful. “Cool! Thanks, Asahi! You’re the best!”

Asahi holds both hands up placatingly. “I wouldn’t go that far…”

“No!” A fire lights in Noya’s eyes, and he reaches out, grabbing both of Asahi’s hands so abruptly that the brunet squeaks. “It’s true! Don’t go selling yourself short, okay?”

Asahi’s voice catches in his throat. He wants to protest again, but Noya’s gaze is so intense that he physically can’t bring himself to do anything more than nod in agreement. It seems to satisfy Noya, so he releases Asahi’s hands and hops up from the couch.

“Alright! I’m gonna head out now, but I’ll see you soon, yeah? We’ll get this done!”

Noya reaches out, bumping Asahi’s shoulder with his fist. The little tap startles Asahi back into reality, and he scrambles to his feet, following Noya to the door and watching him put his shoes on. At the door, they both hesitate. Asahi looks down at his feet, but he can feel Noya’s gaze on him.

“Be safe,” Asahi says, finally.

Noya stares at him for a long moment. Finally, he reaches out, squeezes Asahi’s arm, and then turns away and bolts down the stairs. Asahi watches him jog down the road, and then vanish over the crest of the hill, out of sight, but never out of mind.

Maybe, he considers, he should have tried to make him stay.

Asahi stares at the hill Noya had vanished over for a long moment longer. He stares as if he’s waiting for the other man to turn around and come back, citing that it’s too late to head home, and the trains aren’t running anyway, so it’d take a while on foot. Asahi still doesn’t know if Noya lives nearby or closer to the agency, but either way, he could have thought of something.

He stares on, but Noya doesn’t come back. Finally, Asahi closes the door behind him and flicks the lock.

“You’ve been busy lately,” Kozume remarks, the following Monday, without looking up from his Switch screen.

Asahi doesn’t know how he gets away with playing video games at work so often, but he supposes as long as Kozume is efficient at his job, their boss doesn’t really care. He’s starting to give Asahi some eyes about the case he’s on, so he knows it’s time to hurry up and wrap it up.

Narita comes in, bearing coffee. He hands them out to each of the others in the room, setting Kozume’s next to him and handing Akaashi’s off. Crossing to Asahi, he offers out the coffee.

“Same as usual? How’s it going?” He asks.

Asahi accepts the warm drink from the receptionist. “It’s going,” he sighs, “I haven’t made too much progress outside of some guessed predictions. My sole witness has this habit of up and vanishing and apparently doesn’t have a phone to contact.”

Narita nods sympathetically. “Client isn’t making it easy, huh? This is probably your first one of those, but I see them come through all the time. It’ll work out, so don’t stress too much.”

“He can do with a little stress,” Akaashi comments, taking a sip of his coffee.

Narita turns to give him a withering look and then turns back to Asahi. “Anyway, drink up while it’s warm and then go back into this thing with a fresh mind, yeah? Good luck, Azumane.”

Asahi watches the receptionist go, and takes a long drink of his coffee. It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t flinch away. The moment of pain, however brief, does its part to make everything come into sharper focus. Three days from now, he’ll have been slugging through this case for a month. That’s the time limit he’s going to give himself; if he hasn’t figured this out or made any significant progress in the next few days, he’s going to tell Noya he can’t do it.

Resolution set in his mind, Asahi dives back into his work with renewed vigor.

“Don’t stay too late,” Akaashi says, later that night.

Kozume is already long gone, and Akaashi had finished his work, so he’s getting ready to leave too. It’s just Asahi now, with everyone else out. The black-haired man puts his jacket over his arm and strolls out. Only a moment later, Narita peers in.

“Azumane? Someone is waiting outside for you.”

Asahi glances up, confused. He hadn’t been expecting anybody, but it’s as good a reason as any to change location. He nods in acknowledgment to Narita and hurries to pack his things, pulling his bag over his shoulder and heading out.

Outside, he glances around in search of the person. It takes him a minute to spot them, but when his gaze shifts down, it catches on the streak of blond in Noya’s hair. The other man looks up when Asahi emerges from the building, and then stands immediately when he realizes who it is.

“Noya?” Asahi questions, surprised.

“Hey,” Noya smiles crookedly, “sorry for showing up out of nowhere. I was out and I just ended up here. Are you getting ready to head home?”

Asahi readjusts his bag. “Yeah, I just finished for the night. How did you end up way out here again?”

Noya opens his mouth to answer, and then closes it again, frowning in confusion. Finally, he just shrugs a little, as if he isn’t sure himself.

“I just did,” he says. “Can I walk with you?”

Asahi hesitates, but finally nods in concession. Noya falls into step beside him as he heads out towards the train station. It’s later than Asahi usually leaves, and the streets are nearly empty now. The sun is starting to set beneath the taller buildings in the distance, and Asahi gets the feeling it will be well past dark by the time he gets home.

“Do you live around here, Noya?” Asahi asks, glancing down at the other man.

He recalls seeing Noya back near where he lives, as well, but maybe the shorter man just gets around a lot. This is his chance to finally figure it out, so Asahi seizes it.

Noya hesitates a little, lips parting like he’s going to speak, then closing again. “Uh,” he starts, glancing around, “well-”

Noya cuts off, gaze catching on movement nearby. There’s a girl, no older than seven or eight, stumbling down the sidewalk. Even from this distance, Asahi can see the scrapes on her knees. She’s bawling, rubbing her face with the back of her hands, but steadily making her way down the sidewalk nonetheless, like she’s on a mission.

Asahi exchanges a look with Noya, and they both hurry toward her. Noya reaches her first, crouching in front of her and starting to talk. Asahi is a short pace behind him, catching up just in time to hear the child speak through her tears and sniffling.

“A bad man came into our house,” she sniffles, stuttering around her hiccups, “and Mama told me to run away and get help, but she’s stuck there with him!”

Asahi’s blood goes cold. This is it. The one time he hadn’t been trying to find the man and it practically fell into his lap. Noya is clearly thinking the same thing, expression hard and eyebrows downturned. He meets Asahi’s eyes and nods.

“Hi,” Asahi says, crouching down, “I’m a detective. I can go help your mama, but I need you to tell me which house is yours. Can you do that for me?”

The girl sniffs, looking up at him. “T-The one with the flower mailbox Mama and I painted…”

Noya is already running. Asahi squeezes the girl’s shoulders, getting back to his feet.

“Listen carefully. We’re going to go help your mama, so I need you to be brave for me, okay? Find someone and ask them to call the police for you. We’ll make sure your mom is safe.”

The little girl’s gaze follows him as he runs after Noya. He has no chance of catching up with the spitfire of a man, but Noya waits at the door for him, clearly trying to find a good way in. Asahi glances into the shattered window. The coast seems clear. He gestures to Noya and creeps around to the front door, opening it slowly.

It doesn’t creak, and Asahi thanks any god that exists as he and Noya sneak into the quiet house. Asahi puts a finger to his lips, signaling for Noya to follow him. Together, they quietly round the corner and immediately come face to face with the robber.

They catch the man by surprise. Asahi sees it in the glance he gets of the man’s expression before he’s forced to leap out of the way, bullets riddling the wall where he’d just been standing. To his right, Noya hisses from his spot on the ground, and Asahi has to suppress the nausea that rises in his chest at the sight of red blossoming across Noya’s shoulder.

“Noya,” he gasps, scrambling over, “I’m so sorry. I should have reacted faster. You’re going to need medical attention-” “Asahi,” Noya’s grin edges on pained, but he’s pushing through, nudging Asahi away. “I’m fine. I'm tough, remember? So don’t worry about me. I’ll live, so worry about that kid’s mom first. You bust that guy for the both of us, okay?”

His fingers brush Asahi’s cheek, cold against the skin there, and Asahi’s everything zeroes in on just that sensation. He focuses on the way that Noya’s hand feels against his cheek, electricity at his fingertips. He focuses on the way that regardless of whether he’d known Noya before or not, he knows him now, and he wouldn’t ask for it any other way.

Kissing Noya feels like second nature. He’s careful of the other man’s shoulder, even if it’s nothing more than a brief press of lips, but when he pulls away, Noya exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken in years.

“Stay safe,” he tells Asahi, “‘cause if you die on me, I’ll summon you back and annoy you as a ghost.”

Asahi laughs. “I won’t. Get somewhere safe, Noya.”

He squeezes Noya’s hand and then hurries into the hallway, keeping low and staying alert. He doesn’t know where the robber is, but the robber doesn’t know his location either. But only one of them has a gun, and it isn’t Asahi, so he’s at a disadvantage here. His priority is getting the woman out safely, but he hasn’t seen her yet, so he’s hoping she’s already hiding somewhere safe. His and Noya’s arrival had distracted the robber for a moment, and he just has to hope the moment is enough if he can’t find her first.

Asahi ducks behind the couch just in time to avoid being seen by the man who creeps in through the next hall. He drops to his hands and knees, sneaking around the side to watch the man’s slow progression towards the kitchen, where he assumes there’s a side door. The man’s gaze sweeps the room once, twice. Asahi creeps forward when his back is turned, and the moment he takes a step to move away, Asahi lunges.

He’s scared. God, he’s terrified. He shouldn’t have made any promises to Noya. He isn’t immortal. If this man gets the upper hand, Asahi knows he has no chance.

But he can’t think about that. Right now, he can only focus on survival, on grappling with the man before him for control over the single gun. The robber’s eyes are wide, wild with disbelief. Asahi can’t figure out what he’s so surprised about; surely, he’d expected someone to come after him eventually for all of this? Asahi pulls and the man resists, They shove and turn and twist, brute strength against brute strength, fighting for control of the situation. A stray shot shatters a vase, and there’s a muffled whimper from the closet next to it.

The woman.

Asahi has the upper hand. It’s only for a moment, but the sound distracts him, and the moment is more than enough. The robber twists around and slams his elbow into Asahi’s face hard enough to send him pinwheeling back into the coffee table, head slamming into the wood hard enough to make his vision go black, and then blurry. The aftermath leaves Asahi feeling like there’s an army in his skull waging war against the bones, pounding relentlessly against his forehead.

It hurts. It hurts. He can’t think. He can barely see straight.

He’s been in this situation before.

When he manages to get his vision to focus, only a little, he is staring down the barrel of the gun. The man’s chest heaves, expression twisted in fury, all bared teeth and vicious stance. And this is it — Asahi has no chance here. This is the end, and his promise to Noya will go unfulfilled after all. He thinks about Noya, laughing loud and free, holding his hand to the sunlight so the golden band on his finger glitters. Except Asahi doesn’t know where he picked up that memory. His head is pounding, a steady thump, thump, thump against his skull. His head is pounding and he is thinking and Azumane Asahi is going to die here and now, just like the man in the case he’d been trying so hard to solve. He can’t even close his eyes, watching the man’s finger on the trigger as if in slow motion.

But it never comes.

Instead, there is Noya, howling bloody murder, all feral motions and vengeful anger, streaking out of the hallway and barreling into the man. They both hit the ground and the gun skids away from them. Asahi’s shaken, but he still notices the lack of red staining Noya’s white t-shirt. Asahi trembles, but he realizes right away that Noya’s wound looks as if it had never existed to begin with. Noya looms over the man like a wraith, teeth bared, golden eyes glittering with a promise, a threat, and Asahi thinks to grab the gun before the man recovers from Noya’s winding attack. The would-be thief writhes beneath the other man, but Noya is unyielding and less hesitant than Asahi.

He takes the flower pot off the table and breaks it over the man’s head, knocking him out cold. Asahi is left in stunned silence, clutching the gun, staring at Noya as he hunches over the unconscious man, shoulders heaving with every breath. Asahi is still concerned; he can’t see Noya’s wound, or any sign of it, but for all he knows, Noya had just managed to find an extra shirt. It’s doubtful and farfetched, but it’s the only possible explanation, isn’t it?

“Asahi,” Noya gasps, “Asahi, are you okay? Did he hurt you? You’re bleeding.” He hadn’t noticed, but now that the adrenaline is wearing off, Asahi touches his head and his hand comes away red. He stares at his fingertips, dizzy, and finally sinks to his knees. Noya scrambles off of the man and barrels right into Asahi, straddling his waist to lean over and inspect Asahi’s head. Outside, sirens wail as their backup arrives, and Asahi sighs, relieved that the little girl had found somewhere safe. The officers come flooding in. Asahi feels like hell, but he’s more worried about making sure everything gets taken care of, so he directs them to the woman hiding, and then to the unconscious robber on the ground. It’s over.

Reaching out to touch Noya’s face, Asahi feels like sobbing. “I’m okay,” he rasps out, “I’m okay. You got shot, though, didn’t you? You shouldn’t do reckless things with a wound like that.”

Noya scrambles back off of him and out of Asahi’s reach before the detective can inspect his previously injured shoulder. He takes a little step aside, gaze averted, frown fixed on his features. Asahi’s eyes follow him as he moves away a little.

“Noya?” He frowns, moving to stand.

One of the officers shouts. Asahi’s attention catches on the shout and his gaze follows, catching sight of the previously unconscious man thrashing on the ground. He’s on his stomach facing Asahi, and one of the officers is straddling his back to cuff him. It’s his expression that catches Asahi’s notice, the sheer rage, face twisted up in hatred. His eyes glitter furiously, lips pulled back to bare his teeth in a snarl.

“You’re supposed to be dead!” He shouts. “You both died! I know I killed you, so why the fuck are you still alive?!”

Asahi’s heart falters in his chest. His head hurts. God, it hurts.

“I robbed you months ago! I shot that boy to death! You were dead! You’re supposed to be dead!”

He keeps shouting it. Asahi is cold to the bone, dropped into an endlessly deep pile of fresh snow with no way out. All he sees is the man’s face, and all he hears is dead and his head hurts so much. He’s supposed to be dead? He’s alive, though. He’s alive, but he doesn’t have memories, and he’s supposed to be dead. What boy had he meant? Noya? Did that mean Asahi had known him before after all? Had they both lost their memories?

Something is screaming in the back of his mind to come out. Asahi clutches his head in his hands, feeling panic swell heavily in his throat, suffocating him. His vision is dark at the edges and the gun is on the floor beside him, just within his gaze.

“Asahi,” Noya croaks behind him, voice soft and pained.

Asahi, it echoes and echoes and echoes, and all at once, everything slams back down. He remembers, and he doesn’t know how he could ever forget. The wedding band burns against the hollow of his throat like a brand. He watches, dumbstruck and breathless, as the robber is hauled out. He remembers who he is. He remembers who Noya is.

“Yuu,” he gasps, whirling around.

But the other man is gone.

⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤

Asahi hates the smell of hospitals.

The nurse tells him he’s fine to leave, but he needs to come back for another check-up in a week to make sure there isn’t further head or brain damage. The doctors know his memory has returned, so they’re hopeful, but Asahi can’t share their joy. He goes home, empty-handed and desolate. He’s thinking about everything, about Yuu, about the wedding band around his throat. He doesn’t know where the other man had vanished to this time, but he hopes he’d at least had the sense to get medical attention.

And a week goes by.

In the seven days that Nishinoya Yuu is gone, Asahi dreams.

In his dreams, Asahi dies slowly.

His body is a mass of static and there is nothing but pain and pain and more pain. He’s vaguely aware of someone, somewhere, calling his name. Asahi, they’re saying, Asahi, please wake up.

Except this time, he doesn’t. This time, the pieces reconnect themselves. He is not the one in pain, nor is he the one being called out to. In his dreams, Asahi comes home to their shared home and finds Yuu on the floor, riddled with gunshot wounds and already bleeding out. In his dreams, Yuu is unconscious, and Asahi is sobbing, his voice cracking as he tries desperately to call the police.

“Yuu,” he’s begging, “Yuu, please wake up.”

In his dreams, Azumane Asahi does not make it home in time to stop his husband from fighting a robber. Azumane Yuu had fought alone and lost, and by the time Asahi had gotten back, he’d already been half-dead. Asahi hunches over him, pleading with any god that might listen.

He doesn’t know when he got up, only that he’s standing. He doesn’t know when the man appeared around the corner, only that he’s surprised by his appearance, and when they fight, Asahi does not win. He sees the table come into his line of vision.

There’s pain, and then there’s nothing.

Asahi wakes slowly from the darkness as the pieces slide together in his mind. Suddenly, everything makes sense. He hadn’t given the theory any thought before; it’d simply been the most unbelievable thing, but now he’s sure. It all makes too much sense. The name, the vanishing acts, the same outfit all the time, the strange looks Asahi would get when he would bring Yuu up with others, the missing bullet wound in his shoulder.

Yuu is already dead.

Asahi thinks the cold chill of resignation is the hardest part.

When he sits up, Yuu is sitting on the end of his bed. Asahi can see the door through his blood-stained shirt. The sight makes his heart ache anew. How cruel, he thinks, to make him fall in love with this man all over again, only to lose him once more. Had he really ever had Yuu to begin with?

Yuu looks like he had the last night Asahi had seen him as Azumane Yuu, and not Noya. His face is pale and hollow, golden eyes set into his features, a shade duller than Asahi is used to seeing them. His shirt, previously white, is riddled with bullet holes and stained with blood. Asahi is scared to even breathe for the fear of Yuu leaving once and for all.

Yuu doesn’t look at him when he speaks.

“I’m dead.” It’s not a question. Yuu knows this is a fact. “Right?”

“I’m sorry,” Asahi chokes out.

It isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. He has so much more he wants to say to Yuu. He wants to tell him how sorry he is. He wants to tell him that it should have been Asahi who’d died that day. Yuu had so much to live for, and Asahi barely knows how to live for himself. He wants to tell him how much he loves him, how they were supposed to have a whole life ahead of them. Their adventure had only just begun and it had been torn out from beneath them before they could take the first step.

Asahi chokes on his breath. It isn’t fair. It still isn’t fair.

He wants to say, please, don’t leave me again.

Yuu’s form flickers. Asahi covers his mouth to stifle the sob there. Yuu is in front of him now, gaze soft with acceptance. Even in death, he is the stronger of the two of them. Even now, his unwavering dependability makes Asahi feel safe.

“Asahi,” he says, ghostly fingers brushing past the strands of hair by Asahi’s ears, “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Asahi manages. “Why are you sorry? Yuu, I’m the one who should be apologizing. If I hadn’t gotten held up that day-”

“Then you would have died too.” Noya cuts him off.

Yuu stares him down, golden eyes piercing, and Asahi falters beneath that gaze.

“Asahi, I’m saying sorry because I promised you forever, but I have to go now. I love you so much, you stupid crybaby. I love you more than anything, and even if we were reborn, I’d find you again in ten thousand lifetimes. It’s always going to be you. You’re the kindest, bravest person I’ve ever known, and I’d do everything the same if it meant I had the chance to love you.” Asahi feels like he’s suffocating in his own words. He wants to grab Yuu and hold him close, but his hands pass right through the other man’s shoulders.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” he sobs, “Yuu, I don’t want to go without you. I don’t know how to socialize properly, and nobody else reminds me to take my meds. I can’t ground myself alone when I have an anxiety attack, and you always know what to say when I have a nightmare. I’m not brave. I let people walk over me when you aren’t there to tell them to lay off. You can’t leave because I don’t know what to do without you. I’m brave when you’re around because you make me feel like I can be.”

Yuu laughs. It’s a strangled half sob.

“Someone as cool as you shouldn’t be such a crybaby. You’re your own person, Asahi. You don’t need me or anyone else, even if you think you do. I’m not the one who makes you brave. You do that. And I need you to be extra brave for me now, okay?” His smile wobbles as he reaches out, hand hovering over Asahi’s cheek. “I need you to be brave enough to live the rest of your life, even if I’m not there to live it with you. I wish I could stay and make you as happy as you made me. I wish we could travel the world and have kids and grow old together. But I’ll always be with you.” And this time, when he reaches to touch Asahi, his palm settles over the ring strung around Asahi’s neck and stays there. The point of contact is warm, pulsing out into Asahi’s chest. He feels like he can breathe again. Asahi is so tired of being scared.

He manages a shaky laugh. “You still have my jacket.” Yuu smiles, something soft that touches the edges of his eyes. “Yeah,” he huffs, “sorry about that.” Asahi covers the hand Yuu has over his chest with his own. “Yuu,” he says, “I love you. I love you so much and I always have, and I’m sorry I never said that enough. I’m sorry that we couldn’t have the life we deserved. But I’ll keep living for you, as long as you promise to wait for me. Find me again in the next life, and the one after that, and the one after that. Please let me fall in love with you again.” A single tear slides down Yuu’s face.

“Always,” he says.

Asahi does not get his coat back, but he feels it like a pit of warmth in his chest when Yuu is gone. He sinks slowly forward, gathering the blanket up in his arms and pressing it to his face in a futile attempt to gather the last bits of Yuu’s presence from the fabric. But he’s gone, and Asahi is alone again, with nothing but the ghost of his memory and a promise. His room is empty and the pit of warmth in his chest is a sorry excuse for Yuu’s presence. He’s alone for now, but he’s going to be brave, and he’s going to find Yuu again in the next life. He may not have him now, but he’s never going to let him go again. He has that.

His fingers close slowly over the ring dangling from his neck, pressing the memories there deep into his chest where they’ll make a home.

(And this, at least.)

[villainscomplex]

First Love / Late Spring

now who let me get away with falling three days behind on asanoya week yike

anyway @asanoyaweek21 day 2, mythology, made my own myth abt the seasons, pretend i'm not sleep deprived and this is the most eloquent a/n you've ever read ty 

(no but fr this tested how well I REALLY knew how the hell seasons worked)

Also on:

AO3

Wattpad

FFNet

Quotev

----------------------------------------------------------- In the beginning, the story goes, there is nothingness. The world is empty and lifeless, composed only of dirt and rock and fire and ice. There’s no history in this world because there’s no one there to record it, and maybe there never was. At first, there’s only the world and the silence. 

The universe takes some sort of interest in this world. It’s inhabitable, suitable to become something greater than what it was made to be. It sends a being made of a thousand suns and starlight, and when that being touches down, grass sprouts beneath his feet. He is made of warmth and brilliance, of all the light the universe thought to offer him. When he walks, life blooms around him, taking the form of arching trees and brilliant flowers.

He is called Summer, and he is the beginning of everything. 

In the beginning, it’s only Summer, a being barely held together at the seams with no vessel to contain him. He’s merely a concept, a breath of air racing across the earth and leaving beauty in its wake. But even a being as infinitely existing as Summer was not all-powerful, and his warmth couldn’t reach all recesses of the world. 

On the other side of the world, a being was born from the earth. He is made of ice and all of the cold the dirt has to offer, composed of darkness and a promise. Winter is born from the ground, and where he walks, the world dies. Their worlds collide, and on the border of that balance, two more beings come to be. 

One appears in a spark of brilliant, golden light, wreathed in warmth gentler than Summer’s. His laughter brings new beginnings, and with him come young animals, deer, foxes, and birds sprouting from the enormity of his being. He is Spring, and his arrival sparks a new cycle of life in the world. 

The other being is slower, more hesitant. He doesn’t appear as quickly as the others, as if he’s already prepared to leave the world he’s only just come into. He unfolds himself slowly, not warm like Summer or Spring, but not quite cold like Winter. He brings hesitance with him, curiosity, and melancholy. His arrival is the beginning of endings, and they call him Autumn. 

The four of them create a cycle; Summer flows into Autumn into Winter into Spring. Summer never meets Winter and Autumn never meets Spring, for the fear of any disastrous consequences for the meeting of the opposite. From this cycle comes balance, and from balance comes life. 

Humanity is a gift from the universe. Summer looks upon them like his young siblings, though they know little of him, they relish in his warmth. He gives them laughter and fun, heat and nourishment. He finds enjoyment in watching them, even as they grow and change. 

But all things came to an end, and like their cycles, humans grew and changed and eventually died. Sometimes, Summer is there to witness it. He watches them go beneath the sun, and he is silent when their loved ones mourn. Sometimes, he’s sleeping, in the wake of Autumn taking what half had been his for the quarter of the year. 

It’s Spring who comes up with the idea to take their form. 

When Summer awakens to take Spring’s place, Spring swirls around him. 

“We could take the form of humans and take their names! That way, we can walk among them and teach them to care for themselves and our world. I know they aren’t endless like us, but I’ve heard them tell stories. They’ll pass everything on and we can admire them up close!”

Summer thinks it’s brilliant. Spring is naive, but he was the one to create the animals and humans had taken to them. He watches before his eyes as Spring shrinks and condenses, his unperceivable form wavering and adjusting until it settles into a short, humanoid shape. When the light sinks away, Spring stands before him as a boy with wild orange hair, eyes as warm and brown as the freshly melted earth. He holds his arms out wide, and light flows from his very being, coating him in luminance. 

“I haven’t decided on a name,” Spring tells him, “but when I do, I’ll tell you! I’ll talk to Winter, too, but you’ll have to handle Autumn. I’ve heard he’s elusive, isn’t he?”

Spring knows little about Autumn, just as Summer knows little about Winter. They never meet, and the cycles will never allow them to, but Spring seems content either way. He’s curious about Autumn, so he’s heard from Summer and Winter, but even they know little about the elusive season of endings. 

Summer nods. “I haven’t met him properly,” he admits. “He always creeps in when I’ve already gone to rest.”

“Weird,” Spring huffs, more expressive now with his human features. “Well, I’ll tell Winter then when I go to take his place next cycle. See you next time!”

Spring bounds away with flowers in his wake, leaving Summer to wonder about Autumn as his warmth fills the world. 

It doesn’t matter now. Winter is taking Autumn’s place, and Summer won’t see anything of him until it’s his turn on this side of the world. Perhaps he’ll have the chance to run into Autumn for once, but he gets the feeling Autumn doesn’t want to be found. Summer doesn’t understand why, but the fourth season is quiet and withdrawn, seldom interacting with them more than he needs to.

Summer stops thinking about Autumn when he begins to cross his half of the world, bringing the earth into full bloom. As he runs, he begins to shape and change, a broad grin coming to his features as he takes on a human form. Summer takes the stardust and light he’s made of and compresses it into an impossibly small form, shorter even than Spring’s new form, and his amber eyes streak with golden light. 

Summer takes the form of a dark-haired boy, electric gold streaked through the front of his bangs. He’s small and unassuming for someone as infinite as him, radiating warmth and energy and life. Everything within him buzzes to go, and so he does, spending his time among the people, bringing them joy and life.

Though he looks like one of them now, there’s still something otherworldly about him, and some people call him a god. They’re not sure of what, but they know he brings only good for them, and the sunlight itself is drawn to every fiber of his being. It dapples his hair and flares off of his skin like a golden glow. 

Summer knows nothing of names, and so when they ask, he only smiles. 

Though regretful, his time on this side comes to an end. He feels the slow chill creep in as Autumn awakes, though he doesn’t know from where. His warmth wants to combat it, and Summer is eager to try, but for now, he withdraws it into himself. He can’t linger long, but perhaps a little extra time wouldn’t hurt. He’s painfully curious, and Summer is nothing if not stubborn. 

Autumn is quiet when he comes. Summer watches the leaves brown and wither with his arrival, and the life around them grows lethargic and somber. This is the beginning of endings for some. He hasn’t seen Autumn all the way through, but he’s heard enough from the humans to understand what happens. 

Autumn startles when he realizes Summer hasn’t departed yet. He withdraws immediately, fleeing into the trees. The leaves begin to turn colorful shades of browns and reds and golds, and Summer almost wants to stop to admire them, but he’s hot on Autumn’s heels. 

The other entity swirls into the trees, and Summer forgoes his human form to catch up. 

“Wait!” He gasps out, crash landing in a clearing and rolling onto the forest floor, condensed back into his human shape. 

Autumn hesitates, just behind the treeline. He doesn’t emerge, but Summer knows he’s there.

“You always run from us,” Summer frowns. “But I don’t know why. Do you not want to know us?”

“It’s for the best,” Autumn speaks up, voice soft. 

“Huh?” Summer frowns. “That’s stupid. Shouldn’t we talk sometimes if you’re always taking my place?” 

Autumn withdraws a bit. “...Why do you look like a human?” He finally asks.

Summer grins. “Spring thought of it. He thinks we’ll be able to help better this way. It’s hard to maintain this form, but I like it. I haven’t thought of a human name yet. What do you think?”

Autumn creeps along the trees. Summer watches the one he touches lose its leaves. He seems reluctant.

“I’m okay this way,” he finally says. “They wouldn’t like me. Everything starts to die when I come around and I see the way it makes them unhappy. I’m different from you.” 

“That’s stupid,” Summer frowns, moving forward.

Autumn starts. Before Summer can think to follow, he’s vanished into the distance. Summer frowns after the other season, but it’s time for him to move on. Autumn is strange to him, fickle and hesitant. Summer doesn’t understand him, but perhaps he isn’t meant to. 

Either way, it’s time for him to move on. For now, he’ll rest. Soon, he’ll go to take Spring’s place in their never-ending cycle. He glances back in the wake of Autumn, and then turns his gaze forward and moves on. 

The next time he sees Spring, his appearance has changed a bit. He’s still the small, orange-haired boy, but now freckles blossom across his face and he’s filled his form. He beams when he sees Summer. 

“I talked to Winter,” he tells him, “and he said he’d think about it. I’ll convince him next time I see him, for sure!” 

“Better than me,” Summer sighs, “I got two words in towards Autumn before he ran away. It’s so strange.”

Spring reaches out, patting him on the back. It’s a strange feeling. They’re capable of touch in their natural forms, but it’s so abstract that Summer has never given much thought to it. It’s different in these forms, more physical and grounding. He doesn’t hate it. 

“I thought of a name,” Spring tells him. “Or, well. Winter thought of it, but I like it!”

“Yeah?” Summer tips his head. “What is it?”

“Shoyo!” Spring announces, throwing his arms up. “It fits, I think!”

“Shoyo,” Summer echoes. 

He’s right; it does fit. It sounds right for Spring, fitting in a way that only self-picked titles are. Summer voices his agreement, and Spring - Shoyo - bids him farewell, speeding off into the distance. Now it’s Summer’s turn on this side of the world, the issue of a name weighing heavily on his mind. He doesn’t see Autumn again this cycle. 

The other season comes late to avoid him, and by then, Summer is long gone. 

(On the other side of the world, Winter takes the form of a tall boy with hair like night and eyes as blue as ice. Spring takes Winter’s red-tipped fingers into his hands and fills them with warmth before the taller one goes. 

Shoyo tells Summer about Winter’s new form before he too, goes.)

Summer waits, this time. Autumn is startled to find him there, visibly freezing when he spots him as if he’s let down his guard and expected Summer to be gone. It’s sunset when Autumn arrives, the end of one day into another. There’s something final about it, though Summer knows the sun will always rise on a new day. There’s a half-formed thought in the back of his mind, but he turns his attention to Autumn, instead. 

Sure enough, Autumn hasn’t taken a human form. Summer is sure it will take more convincing, but he’s determined to bring Autumn into their circle more than he’s been thus far. They’ve been here for cycles and cycles already, but Summer is astounded by how little they know about their last member. 

“Why do you keep waiting for me?” Autumn asks, hanging back away from where Summer sits in the grass, watching the sun sink. 

“You know,” Summer starts, “in the beginning, it was just me. The universe put me here because it thought something could be made of it. Winter came because I can’t cover the whole world. You two came for balance. This world isn’t like us; it needs the balance of all of us to survive and thrive.”

Autumn hesitates. Slowly, he joins Summer in the grass, settling beside him like a blanket. 

Summer grins over at him. “Do you watch the sunset a lot? It’s sort of like an ending too. The end of a day, a month, a cycle… Humans come up with some interesting things. Even though it signifies an end, it’s not permanent. That’d be like saying nighttime is bad, but some things flourish then, too.”

“Are you trying to change my mind by comparing me to the day cycle?” Autumn asks.

Summer laughs, loud and free. “Maybe. Is it working?”

Autumn stays quiet for a long moment, watching the sun sink. It isn’t until darkness sweeps across the world that he rises. 

“Maybe,” he murmurs.

Summer watches him vanish over the crest of the hill. 

(The next time Summer sees Shoyo, he’s decided on a name. 

“Winter did too,” Shoyo laughs. “He’s Tobio. What’s yours?”

“Sorry, Shoyo,” Summer grins, “I’ve got someone else I have to tell first.”)

Summer doesn’t see Autumn again for an entire cycle. The first time, Summer decides to give him space, but by the time he needs to leave the other side, it’s a little more upsetting. He goes through a human’s year without seeing Autumn, and then another. The name waits in his chest. 

Autumn comes early the next year. It’s the middle of the night, and a moment later, Summer might not have recognized him. He changes as he descends, all the hesitance and endings pressing itself into the shape of a tall man. When he unfolds, his brown hair falls past his shoulders in gentle waves and his dark eyes are careful, scanning the world around him like he’s seeing it for the first time. 

Summer shrieks so loudly that he sees Autumn’s new form physically flinch in reaction. He pays it little mind, sprinting the short distance and flinging himself at the taller man so aggressively that they both go down in a whirl of leaves and dispensed forms. Autumn reforms slowly beneath him, still not accustomed to piecing his human form together as quickly as Summer.

“Ow,” he gets out. 

“Where have you been?” Summer demands.

“Sorry,” Autumn frowns, “I’ve been… thinking. I lost track of time.” 

Summer frowns down at him, and then disperses his human form, condensing again into it a bit away. He watches Autumn stumble back to his feet, still hesitant and unsure in this more solid form. It’s a good look, Summer will admit. It fits Autumn. 

“Sorry,” Autumn says again. 

“You apologize too much,” Summer tells him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “Just don’t do it again or I’ll wait even longer next time.”

Autumn smiles a hesitant little smile. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He needs to go soon, but since Autumn is here early, he has a little bit of time. He gestures to the other season.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s watch the sunrise. I’ve got something to tell you.”

Autumn looks a little scared, but his curiosity visibly wins out. He follows Summer through the trees. Summer leads him on and on until they finally come to an overlook where the view of the dark sky is clear. The sun isn’t quite rising yet, but he can see the light getting ready to come up over the horizon. 

“I’m glad you decided to try,” Summer tells him, sitting down and stretching his legs out. “Human forms are strange and different from what we’re used to, but it’s a good difference. I like it. I think you will, too.”

Autumn slowly sits beside him. Summer watches him run his fingers through the grass, lips parted in surprise at the sensation. 

“Have you thought of a name?” Summer asks him, laughing. 

“No,” Autumn admits, shaking his head. “I don’t know where to start.” 

“I decided on mine,” Summer tells him. “Do you wanna know?”

Autumn’s expression gives him away before he can even reply. Summer laughs, leaning back on his palms as the sky streaks with reds and golds. 

“I decided on Yuu.” 

“Yuu,” Autumn echoes softly. 

Something about the way the other season says it cements it in Yuu’s chest. He doesn’t have a heart like humans, but if he did, he’s sure it would be racing. Autumn brings his knees up and leans against them, watching the golden light peek over the horizon. It’s warm when it washes across the horizon; after all, summer hasn’t quite passed yet. 

“I like it,” Autumn says.

“What about Asahi?” Yuu asks abruptly.

The birds flee from the nearby trees. Autumn visibly starts.

“Huh?” He asks. “I thought you were going with Yuu?”

“Not for me,” Yuu turns to him. “For you.”

“Asahi,” Autumn echoes, and then again, “Asahi.” 

He seems to genuinely ponder it for a moment. Yuu watches the expressions cross his face rapidly. The suggestion had been a spur of the moment, and he doesn’t remember where the name had come from, but something about it just fits Autumn. 

“Okay,” Autumn murmurs, finally, “Asahi it is.” 

The sun crests over the horizon and lights Yuu’s entire face in a brilliant glow. His smile shines even brighter. 

Yuu leaves later that day. Asahi sees him off, and he seems hesitant like there’s something he wants to say but he can’t bring himself to. Yuu doesn’t push it. He doesn’t know what they’re building, but it’s still tentative now, and they’ve got all the time to do it. Yuu isn’t patient or subtle, but he doesn’t want to chase Asahi away again. 

“See you next time,” he says.

He streaks away into the day, leaving light behind where his footsteps had been.

Time goes on, and people make up new tales. Sometimes, winter lasts longer than it should, and some say the groundhog saw its shadow. Others will say that spring came along, and winter stayed behind to spend a few extra days by his side. 

Sometimes, at the end of summer, the last few days are hotter than the rest. Someone might say it’s because the earth is growing hotter every year and humanity is pushing it. A mother might tell her child that it’s because the summer is happy to finally greet the fall. 

And maybe two men might overhear her on the sidewalk, hand in hand, a mysterious twinkle in their eyes and something strange and otherworldly about them. But if anyone knew the truth, they seemed none the wiser.

In the end, autumn comes, leaves fall, and life changes in a burst of color. 

[villainscomplex]

could cry just thinkin about you

anyway i actually started working on @asanoyaweek21 like halfway through july after i finished my camp nano word count, but then i tripped and fell back into my princess tutu pit and ,,,,,,,,,,, yeah im late already 

anyway asanoya week day one: soulmate au / the broom bc i will never get over the homoeroticism of the broom fight 

Also on: AO3

Wattpad

FFnet

Quotev

-----------------------------------------------------------

When Nishinoya Yuu is a child, he’s a coward. 

He’s little, and there’s this ever present bundle of fear and anxiety writhing around in his chest. It means he’s scared, he concludes, and so he cries when he rides a bike for the first time, and then when he gets lost in the woods near his house, and then again when he comes across a dog bigger than he is. 

It’s strange, he begins to think, as he grows. He’s sure that feeling must be his own, but sometimes he’s suddenly, explicitly happy, and sometimes when he thinks he should be happy, he’s so painfully sad that it aches in every fiber of his being. 

When he’s eight, Yuu scrapes his leg from knee to mid-shin when he falls out of a tree. The pain is the first sensation he’s aware of, arm twisted awkwardly beneath him where it’d made a futile attempt to cushion his fall. Underneath it, concern spikes, bubbling with that familiar chill of anxiety. Yuu is too busy thinking about how much his arm and leg hurt to give it too much thought at the time. 

Yuu is eight the first time he breaks his arm, and the cast itches so much that he’s tempted to tear it off the moment it’s on. Yuu is eight when he’s sitting in the passenger seat of his grandfather’s car, a cast on one arm and ice cream in his other hand. He thinks the scrape down his leg is going to leave a nasty scar, but it’ll look cool and he can tell people whatever he wants about its origin. 

“You don’t seem excited about your ice cream,” his grandfather remarks with a little chuckle, lips tugging up.

Yuu huffs. “I am! I’m super excited!”

He thinks he is, at least. Yuu loves ice cream, and he always gets excited when he gets it, but that tugging little concern is still nestled deep in his chest and Yuu doesn’t really know what to do with it. He’s so used to it, like second nature, but somehow it feels foreign nowadays. 

His grandpa laughs again. “I bet your soulmate is worried about you, always causing yourself trouble like this.” 

Yuu stares back at him, ice cream halfway to his mouth. “Huh?”

“Your soulmate,” the man says again, “everyone’s got one. Not necessarily romantic, mind ya. You can feel their emotions. It’s a little inconvenient sometimes, but you miss it when it’s gone. You’re always hurting yourself, so your soulmate is probably worried about you.”

Yuu thinks about his grandmother. His memories of her are faint, at best. He’d barely been old enough to remember her face when she’d passed, but he remembers how strange his grandfather had acted after, like something was missing from the core of his being. Yuu thinks about the word  soulmate . There’s someone out there meant to be in his life specifically, and he’s meant to be in theirs. Yuu thinks about the little bundle of emotion in his chest, and he realizes that must be his soulmate.

He hadn’t thought to try and distinguish them until now, but it has him tracking his memories back as far back as he can, seeking that feeling in them all. Sure enough, the anxiety is ever present. Sometimes, it’s duller than others, muffled beneath other emotions, but it’s always there. 

“I think my soulmate is a scaredy-cat,” Yuu announces, and then shrieks when his cold ice cream drips onto his exposed knee. 

His grandfather laughs, and Yuu whines as he shoves the top of the cone into his mouth in a futile attempt to save the rest of it. 

When he’s a child, Nishinoya Yuu is a coward. When he’s eight, his grandfather tells him about  soulmates  , and Yuu thinks  my soulmate is scared of everything.  It keeps him up that night, staring at the ceiling in a way that feels too ancient for a boy his age, but he’s come to a conclusion. If his soulmate is a scaredy-cat, then Yuu will just have to be the brave one for the both of them. 

He tries to reach out to that little bundle of feeling with his resolve, wanting to sooth the turmoil there. It doesn’t change, but Yuu is determined. He’ll become strong enough for the both of them, and then he’ll protect his soulmate so they never have to worry again. 

“From now on,” he tells the air, sitting up and jumping off his bed, “I’m going to be the bravest person ever! Then my soulmate will never have to worry again!”

His bravery starts by yelling past his bedtime. He tells himself that he isn’t scared when his mother shouts from the other room, he’s just being respectful by listening to her and crawling back into his bed, hiding under his blanket. If his heart is pounding in his ears, then that’s a secret between him and his soulmate. 

With his new resolve, Yuu grows. He becomes bold and eccentric, loud and outspoken. He becomes a lionhearted boy, too much brilliance to fit inside a body as small as his remains. He becomes stubborn and strong-willed, never backing down from a challenge regardless of how much trouble it will get him into. Yuu embraces everything he has to offer, but he refuses to be sad. 

That ever present pit of broiling emotions is constant, nestled deep in his chest like a second heart, and he doesn’t want to make his soulmate worry ever again. 

Some days, it’s calmer than others. There’s times he nearly forgets it’s there, in the wake of some other hesitant, but excited emotion, and there’s times where it’s so strong that it wakes him even from a dead sleep. Those nights are the worst because he  knows  there’s nothing he can do as is, and his soulmate is having to suffer alone. 

He tries to encourage them as best he can, wondering if they feel his emotions as strongly as he often feels their’s. 

Yuu is in his last year of middle school when things begin to change. He’s taken to volleyball like a moth to flame. There’s something about being behind everyone like the final line of defense, the one everyone depends on to keep the ball in play; it’s thrilling, keeping his blood rushing in his veins and his heart pounding in his ears. 

He wins an award, and he’s so full of pride that he nearly misses the faint little swell of happiness that comes from that bundle of feelings in the back of his chest. Maybe his soulmate does feel his emotions just as strongly. 

The first time he meets Azumane Asahi, Yuu doesn’t think much of him. His hair is a little past his ears, curling up beneath the lobes and sticking up in the back like he’d recently been laying on it. His first impression is that Azumane looks as if he’s waiting for the entire world to come down on his shoulders. He easily dwarfs everyone, but he stands with his shoulders curled in, hands clasped complacently in front of him and gaze down, as if trying to avoid notice. 

Yuu isn’t sure why, but it pisses him off, seeing someone who looks as big and strong as Azumane looking like such a coward. 

He says as much to Azumane’s face exactly a week later.

Azumane balks. “What.” 

Yuu puts his hands on his hips. “You’re huge and super strong, but you act like a total coward. You look like a skittish dog or something!” 

“A dog…” Azumane visibly slouches lower.

Yuu would say his dejected expression is almost comical, if it hadn’t been the exact opposite of what he’d been wanting. Azumane reminds him of how he’d been when he was a child, anxiety ridden and glass hearted. 

“Okay!” Yuu announces. “We’re gonna practice together!” 

Azumane doesn’t even get out a response before Yuu is towing him back towards the court, determined to teach this boy the ways of reckless bravery and intense practice.

Yuu doesn’t know when or where he lost the plot, but somehow this becomes second nature. He finds himself seeking Azumane out in the hallway, barreling into the larger boy, or towing him behind himself from time to time. He meets Ryu and he meets Kiyoko; the former becomes his friend early on and both boys adamantly say they’re crushing on the latter.

It feels like a performance. Yuu knows Kiyoko isn’t his soulmate. She’s gentle and anxiously soft-spoken, but not in the same way that his soulmate feels like they should be. He doesn’t admit that maybe there’s this half formed idea about Azumane tucked away in the back of his mind, and everyone is better for it. 

He wants to be sure. He has to be. 

“I think I should trim my hair soon,” Asahi remarks offhandedly one day, when they’re leaving practice.

Yuu watches his fingers card through the wavy brown strands, a little contemplative frown fixed on his face. He tries to imagine Asahi with short hair like most of the others, and the image just won’t come to mind. Maybe he’s biased.

“No way, Asahi-san!” Yuu grins, reaching out to slap the other man on the back. “I think long hair suits you! It makes you look kinda wild, don’t you think? It’s cool!”

Asahi slouches into himself a little, curling a strand of hair around his finger. He hums noncommittally, allowing the strand to fall away, but he doesn’t comment on Yuu’s words. He just looks a little more thoughtful.

Yuu is only a little surprised when he really  looks  at Asahi one day and his hair is just past his shoulders. He’s got a little facial hair now, too, and something about it makes him feel more mature, older, like he’s finally growing into himself. Yuu takes a running leap onto his back the moment he sees him in practice that afternoon, and Asahi hardly sways beneath him. 

The realization settles in; this isn’t going to last forever. He won’t always be able to be with everyone like this. Asahi has grown and filled out, fitting into the broadness of his shoulders. He’s steady and unyielding, and Yuu isn’t sure when he started to become something like this. 

That pit of anxiety still lingers in his chest. It wavers, sometimes. 

They go against Date Tech. Their defeat is crushing and miserable for everyone involved, but when Asahi doesn’t call out for the last spike, Yuu feels it like an anchor in the hollow of his chest. It’s painful, near suffocating, and he can see the sheer weight of it coming down on Asahi’s shoulders. Those negative feelings swirl up into his chest again, fought only by his own fury - fury at Asahi, for not calling for the spike. 

Fury at himself, for not retrieving them. 

He hates it. 

“Why won’t you blame me?” 

Yuu feels the anger before he witnesses it. This is his confirmation, he’s sure. There’s no doubt anymore; these emotions living alongside his own are Asahi’s. The first time he feels Asahi’s anger, it feels cold, like ice in his veins. There’s something sad about it, something self-sacrificing, like Asahi wants to shoulder everything and leave nothing to be spared for the rest of them. His fury comes like a wave of ocean water, painful when it enters his lungs.

Yuu turns on his heel. Asahi stands - no, Asahi hunches - in front of him. He looks like he had when Noya had first met him, shoulders curled into himself, back bent like the world itself is coming down on it. Maybe it is, this time. Yuu doesn’t know if Asahi has realized that they’re soulmates. Yuu doesn’t know if Asahi would even accept it. 

Asahi doesn’t seem to be in a very accepting mood right now, and Yuu is in no mindset for motivation. 

They fight. They fight before they’re even anything, before Yuu can say anything, before he can even confess to himself that he would have been willing to leave his soulmate behind for Asahi, even if the other boy hadn’t ended up being them. He doesn’t tell Asahi how he used to be a coward. He doesn’t tell him that the reason he works so hard and never stops moving forward is because he’d made a promise to both of them a long time ago. 

He doesn’t tell Asahi that he’s terrified to lose him.

All he knows is that if Asahi’s anger is like ice, then his is like flames, raging and all-consuming. All he knows is that he’s furious, and he’s yelling, and then there’s a  snap , and suddenly everything goes cold. Asahi’s feelings drop to the pit of his stomach and become cold there, and Yuu feels like the tightrope he’s been walking has finally given way. 

Ryu holds him back, and all he can do is watch Asahi walk away. 

He doesn’t cry. 

Asahi doesn’t show up for practice the next day, and his lack of presence doesn’t go unnoticed. Yuu corners him in the hall. He feels like this is starting to become a cycle now, arguing and fighting over trivial things. It’d be easy to solve if Asahi just had a little more faith, but Yuu knows better. He knows how Asahi feels too well. 

Yuu doesn’t care what others think. He bleaches his hair because he thinks it looks cool. When people tell him he’s too loud, he gets louder. He refuses to be looked down upon and spoken over. He’s been in detention more times than he can count, but it never stops him from repeated offenses. 

Yuu doesn’t care what others think, but when Asahi walks away from him, it feels final. It feels like the end of something that never began. Nishinoya Yuu never cries. 

(The people in the hall that day are silent witnesses to his tears, but nobody says a thing about them.) 

Yuu isn’t much for thinking, so he spends all of his time in suspension doing, instead. He works and works and works some more, trying not to think of Asahi turning his back on them. On him. All he can do is hope Asahi will come to his senses by the time Yuu is back. 

He doesn’t. Yuu goes back, and Asahi is still gone, so he leaves again. He loves volleyball, but he won’t be a part of it if it means leaving Asahi behind. Asahi may believe that he’s unnecessary, but they all know better. 

It isn’t until he’s staring at the broad expanse of Asahi’s back again in the practice match that he really  realizes,  and for the second time, he feels like he’s really seeing Asahi. He sees someone who is trying for the people he cares about, someone who is finally learning to try for  himself  and he thinks  that’s all I wanted.  

They fix the broom together. 

“We’re soulmates,” Yuu tells him, so abruptly that Asahi’s surprised flinch dislodges the two pieces again. 

Asahi glances down. “I know.”

Yuu stares at him. “What.”

“I know,” Asahi says again, gaze soft and hesitant. “I’ve known since we met. You aren’t exactly quiet about your emotions, y’know. I never said anything because you liked Shimizu. You deserved better than someone like me.”

“Asahi-san,” Yuu intones, “you’re the  only  person I’ve ever liked.”

“What.”

“Oh my god.”

When Asahi laughs, it lights up his whole face. Yuu stares for a long moment, watching Asahi’s shoulders tremble. He feels Asahi’s relief wash over him like a second skin, settling into his bones themselves. The warmth of his joy is like a blanket. 

“Well,” Asahi says, “I guess we’re both a little dumb then, huh?”

“To be fair,” Yuu huffs, “I didn’t realize till after the Date Tech match.” 

Asahi laughs again, and Yuu thinks that everything is going to be okay after all. Asahi is finally starting to have some sort of belief in himself, and while Yuu knows his doubt and anxiety won’t go away overnight, they’re taking baby steps. 

And if Ryu and Daichi give Suga and Kiyoko ten dollars each when they admit their newest revelation, then nobody is any the wiser. 

[villainscomplex]

O, My Heart

i actually forgot about my @it-zines piece, but I was forcibly reminded, and in light of BNHA Chapter 290, no time like the present to actually post it. 

warnings for implied non-con, domestic and child abuse, among other things courtesy of Todoroki Enji.

YOU CAN ALSO FIND IT ON:

AO3

FFnet

Wattpad

Quotev

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time she meets Todoroki Enji, Rei is fresh out of high school and looking forward to her future. She’s always been kind of indecisive about what she wants to do, but it’s easy enough to get a job as a receptionist at one of the local clinics. 

“You should be a hero with that quirk of yours.” Her coworker tells her in passing. “If I had a quirk that powerful, I’d go right into hero work.”

“If everyone was a hero, there wouldn’t be anyone left to do our jobs, don’t you think?” She retorts, but her coworker just frowns and carries on.

The first time she meets Todoroki Enji, the city is falling apart around her. People flee, shoving and pushing, as a villain topples buildings, sending rubble and concrete raining onto the civilians below. Rei isn’t a large person by any means and people spare her no expense. The ground is not a welcoming force, sharp with glass and rock shards. 

Rei’s first instinct is to panic. She’s a soft soul; situations with high tension and stress are bad places for her to be, and being in the path of stampedes of people and crumblings buildings is certainly one of those situations. She’s so busy dodging feet that she almost doesn’t notice the massive piece of concrete plummeting towards her until the shadow of it covers her.

Her heart jumps into her throat and her hand instinctively flies up, head jerking away to hide. She’s going to die here. 

Her ice responds to her call, a curved wall of glace protecting her, but the rubble never reaches her. 

The first time Rei meets Todoroki Enji, she is laying on her back in the middle of the carnage of a villain attack, and the sky is made of fire. 

For a moment, everything sort of loses focus. The edges of her ice start to turn to water, dripping down the sides of the glacier, but her eyes are fixed on the sky above her and it’s red and red and then a different kind of red, darker, and blue.

“You need to evacuate,” his voice cuts through the haze, and suddenly everything comes rushing back, “can you stand?”

“I-” Her voice fails her momentarily. “I think so.”

He doesn’t wait. The redheaded boy tows her up to her feet again, glancing between her and the glacier with a furrow in his brow. He couldn’t be any older than her, but there’s something about him that seems leagues beyond her. 

“That’s an impressive quirk,” he remarks offhandedly, “but you need to get to safety.”

He releases her and her arms are cold where his hands had been. “Wait,” she reaches out, snagging his sleeve, “what’s your name?”

She can’t think of eyes as clear and blue as his. There’s dirt smudges on his face, but the flames that frame his costume illuminate his features like a halo. She thinks that he must be the type of person who carries the sun on his shoulders.

“Todoroki,” he tells her, “Todoroki Enji.”

And he marches back into the battle.

--

They call him The Flame Hero: Endeavor and Rei doesn’t think for a second she’ll ever see him again. She allows herself to think about him frequently for this reason alone, her knight in flaming armor.

“Oh,” says someone on the subway, jostling her, “s- wait, I know you.”

Rei lifts her gaze and meets the very blue eyes she’s been thinking about. “Oh,” she replies, eloquently.

It’s a week later and he tells her, “You never told me your name.”

Her heart ignites like his armor. “Rei.” 

Enji’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Rei doesn’t think much of it. 

--

Just like that, she starts seeing him frequently. He’s kind to her, even if his personality is rough around the edges and he’s always bothering her about her ice quirk. His smiles come rarely, but when it does, it’s lopsided and endearing. She falls a little more in love with it. 

With him.

“I’m going to become a top hero,” he tells her, taking her hand in a strong grip, “and then I’m going to marry you.”

At the time, it’s less of a threat and more of a promise. At the time, she doesn’t realize what that promise entails.

When she’s twenty, she comes home to Enji eating dinner with her family.

“Rei,” her mother scolds, “you never told me you were dating the number two hero. I’m so happy you’re getting engaged.”

There’s something a little off about her mother’s voice, but Rei is too overwhelmed at the words. She’s getting married. She’s marrying Enji. He ducks his head a little as if he’s embarrassed, and Rei gazes at him like he carries the sun.

And to her, maybe he does. 

(For a while, she believes he genuinely loves her.)

--

Todoroki Rei, officially, dreams of a fairytale life. She wants to live in a small house with a happy family, where she can spend her days cooking and tending to flowers. It’s not like that, she knows, not with her husband being the number two hero, but she dreams.

It’s hard being isolated for a while. She no longer lives with her family and Enji is rarely home, but Rei tries to keep herself entertained in the large home Enji’s selected for them. She tries gardening, but it turns out she doesn’t have much of a green thumb. She cooks, but there’s no one but her to cook for until Enji gets home late and tired. She cleans and cleans and cleans, but eventually, the house is spotless and there’s nothing left to organize.

But still, she’s happy with Enji. For a while.

When Touya is born, there’s a new little light in Rei’s world, all red hair and blue eyes like Enji. He looks nothing like his mother and everything like his father, and Rei adores him. The pride on Enji’s face when he’s born is like nothing she’s ever seen from him before. It makes her heart swell.

They’ll be a family.

She doesn’t notice it yet, but something changes in Enji that day, the moment he holds their baby in his arms, large and intimidating and out of place in the small hospital room. Rei is so, so happy.

But Enji is happier.

(Until he’s not.)

--

The change is slow. At first, he’s an attentive father. And then gradually, creeping like darkness, obsessive. The closer Touya gets to the quirk presenting age, the more Enji hovers, watching like a hawk, like a wolf watches a rabbit.

Touya’s quirk is fire. Rei knows first because she tends the burn his flames leave behind on his soft skin. Enji’s eyes are painfully bright, twin slits of ice, when he learns of Touya’s quirk and the potential his fire holds. And all at once, they’re bottomless pits of freezing water, cruel and piercing and angry when he’s told that Touya’s quirk would almost permanently deform him if used too much.

Enji is suddenly very absent again. Rei has Touya now, but somehow, she’s still painfully lonely. Touya stays happy, but somehow that makes it worse.

Fuyumi comes next. Touya is overjoyed that he’ll have a sibling to play with now, even if she is a girl and years younger than him. Enji steps into their lives again, and Rei begins to think that he’ll be around more with two children instead of just Touya.

For a while, he’s doting again.

They’re happy again.

For a while.

Fuyumi inherits only an ice quirk, similar to Rei’s but nowhere near as powerful. She sees the look in Enji’s eyes, twin flints of ice, of hellfire, burning into the backs of their children. His lips press into a tight line, and Rei is suddenly reeling, wondering what had gone wrong and why she kept failing to recognize the man who came home to her every night. 

A part of her wishes he would stop coming back, She tucks that part away neatly, safe behind locked doors and thrown away keys,

But she begins to dread Enji’s presence, dread his presence in their room and his hands, hard and insistent and again, again, again.

--

Enji buys her a canary for her birthday. He sets in in the front room in its gilded white cage, where it sings and sings and sings. The bird seems content in its cage, where it’s sheltered and cared for, but Rei can’t help but wonder if it ever wants to stretch its wings. 

Sometimes, the bird gazes back at her, head tipped, as if he’s wondering why she hasn’t left her cage either.

Rei can’t remember the last time she’d talked to any of her old friends. 

The bird keeps singing.

Rei lets it go and Enji doesn’t once take notice to the silence.

Natsuo is born whether Rei likes it or not. He’s a hard birth, long and complicated, and the doctor tells her that having any more children could potentially kill her. She only gathers up energy to smile placidly at him and nod absently as the words pass in one ear and out the other. It’s a risk she knows they’ll take if Enji isn’t satisfied. She’s beginning to think Enji won’t be satisfied until she’s in the ground. She isn’t sure what he wants from her anymore.

At one point, Rei thinks that maybe the awkward boy with the gorgeous eyes would exist only in her daydreams, and then in her city, and then in her life. At one point, Rei is just a girl in love with a boy, and she thinks Enji is just a boy in love with a girl and that’s enough for both of them.

Natsuo inherits an ice quirk.

Nothing is ever enough for Todoroki Enji. 

There’s a brand of bone-deep exhaustion that takes root in her body and makes a home there. 

She thinks about the canary. She thinks about flying far, far away. 

--

Rei and Shouto are both hospitalized when he’s born. It’s a close call for both of them, but they pull through, and the doctors smile when Rei cries, thinking it’s of happiness.

Enji’s eyes are wild, only for Shouto, only for the child who could be his last chance to achieve whatever goal he’s unwittingly dragged Rei into. He visits Rei once for appearances, twice to take her and their fourth child home. 

Shouto is a gentle child, cheerful and toddling, but it’s painful to her how much the half of him looks like Enji. He’s split clean down the center, half her, half his father, and Rei tries to smile when he seeks her attention. It’s more than she can do for Touya. She loves her eldest dearly, but when she looks at him, she sees Enji.

Shouto is five when he presents his quirk, split straight down the middle with fire and ice. Suddenly, Rei understands what Enji’s been doing this whole time. It was never her. It was her quirk. He wanted to create something powerful enough to surpass the both of them and everyone else.

She knows he’s ambitious, but she’s severely underestimated how much. She’d known about quirk marriages, but she hadn’t thought for a second her family would hand her off into one.

Rei hides Shouto’s quirk as long as she can, but inevitably, Enji finds out. It only takes a second and Shouto is that songbird, locked away, separated from his siblings and treated like a tool and a soldier instead of a child. 

His happiness is feral and cruel and terrifies Rei to the bones.

“Enji,” she pleads, shielding Shouto with her own body as he doubles over on the floor, sick from the horrendous training Enji puts him through, “please, he’s still only a child. He-”

If Todoroki Rei had any lingering feelings about their prior relationship, Enji physically shatters them in a heartbeat. She’s standing one moment and on the ground the next, and everything aches, from the stinging in her face to the way her heart splits down the middle.

When she sees Enji, she sees a man unfamiliar to her, eyes so blue and bottomless that she could sink forever. When she sees Enji, she sees a wraith of a man, a spectre surrounded in flames and fury and ambition, a man who cares for nothing but his goals and will plow through anything to get to them. There had never been a point where Rei thought, even for a second, that Enji would raise his hand against her.

But he does.

And with it, he slams the door of her cage shut.

[villainscomplex]

the corner of first and amistad

i can’t believe it rlly took me getting neck deep into haikyuu to yeet my writers’ block smh

Also on:

AO3

FFnet

Quotev

Wattpad

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Ukai Keishin grows weary of the city.

He’s a country boy at heart, born and raised in a place where he can glance outside and see the stars anytime at night. The crickets sang to him when he jogged through the chilled night air, lungs cold and body warm.

Here, the cacophony of cars keeps him awake at night. People are only polite because they have to be. There’s nothing but the black sky above him, empty of the starlight he’d taken for granted as a kid.

When he’s twenty-two, he moves to the city to make a better life for himself. By the time he’s twenty-six, he’s just tired, in a bone-deep wary sort of way. He takes up smoking a year and a half in. It isn’t as if it’ll kill him any more than this place will, after all.

Sleep seldom comes easy. He turns in around ten every night, but without fail he’ll toss and turn until two or three. After that, he finally gives up and rises again. Sometimes, it’s easy to occupy his mind with the same two late-night television channels until he passes out or the sun comes up. Sometimes, he’s too restless.

Tonight is such a night.

His apartment is on the third floor of the complex. The rent is spiked high for such a dingy, busted place, but it’s barely in his pay range and he’s lived here for the past four years, so it’s home now whether he likes it or not.

Despite the time he’s been here, it hasn’t changed much. It’s the same ratty couch and low table that serves more as a catch-all than anything else. The carpets are stained with things he doesn’t care to question and the occasional bugs aren’t favorable, but at least he hasn’t seen any rats thus far. The appliances are liable to break and there’s been two break-ins at the complex since he’s lived here, but not at his apartment.

The window to the fire escape whines in protest as Keishin shoulders it open. It doesn’t have a particularly good view unless the viewer is fond of brick walls and dark alleyways, but Keishin doesn’t particularly care about his view. He shuffles out in his cotton pajama pants, no shirt, no shoes, bleached hair loose around his face, armed only with his lighter and a single cigarette.

It’s three a.m. and the city is still awake. The cold air bites at his face as he flicks his lighter several times without success, attempting to light his cigarette. Finally, it gives him a feeble enough flame to light the end, and he takes a long inhale. Distantly, he hears the sounds of the cars on the busy streets. There are sirens somewhere in the distance, high and wailing above the blinding lights and dark skies.

He exhales into the chilled air, watching the smoke curl into wisps and fade into the darkness.

Everything feels kind of muted, like he’s the only thing living in this moment, like the city is bearing down on him all at once, softly requesting his humanity in exchange for blinding lights and endless noise and eternal pleasures.

God, he misses the stars. He misses the serenity of the country, even with its mosquitoes and nosy people. It was so easy to forget the world there, in his quiet bubble of serenity.

He shifts from foot to foot in a half-hearted attempt to warm up, exhaling another breath of smoke from between his teeth. He considers, not for the first time, that this is a bad habit he needs to break, but it’s the only thing that never fails to ease him on nights like these.

Keishin snubs the last bit of his cigarette and turns to flick the butt off the railing and go inside, but scuffling sounds and muffled voices give him pause. He watches as two men, hoods flipped up over their heads, wrestle a third into the end of the alleyway. The third man is visibly afraid, even from this distance, short black hair ruffled, glasses askew, and clothes disheveled.

Probably a mugging. They happen commonly in the area. Keishin sighs. It really isn’t his concern, but he’s not a bad person at heart.

He raises his hand to his ear like he has a phone – not that they’ll be able to tell from where he is – and his voice. “Yes, officer? There are two men here attempting to rob someone,” he starts, watching out of his peripherals as the three men down below start, their heads whipping up.

He starts in on the address, but the two would-be robbers have already abandoned their mission and raced out of the alleyway, leaving the third man unceremoniously dumped on the cold concrete.

Keishin watches him stumble back to his feet, seemingly disoriented. He sways a little like he’s been drinking, and then adjusts his glasses and peers up at Keishin properly.

“Oi,” Keishin drawls, finally flicking his forgotten cigarette butt, “it ain’t safe to wander around these parts at this time of night. You stupid or somethin’?”

“I guess so,” the man replies, voice soft and grateful. “Thank you for helping me. I figured it’d be safer to walk intoxicated than drive, but I guess I should have just gotten a cab, huh?”

So he’d hit the nail on the head. Tipsy businessman, probably out drinking with equally irresponsible coworkers. Keishin has a nasty feeling this guy is a magnet for trouble. He looks too nice. With a quiet groan, he drops his head against the cold metal of the railing, debating -- not for the first time, as usual -- his life choices.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters to himself, and then, louder, to the man, “306. You’d better sober up before you get mugged again.”

He doesn’t even pause to wait for a reply, going back inside and shoving the window shut behind him. If the dude decides not to take him up on the offer, it isn’t Keishin’s problem. He’d tried and that’s all he can do.

Suffice to say, he isn’t actually expecting the soft, hesitant knock a few minutes later.

Keishin opens the door and fixes the man with a scrutinizing look. “I was right,” he decides, “you are too trusting. What if I tried to kill you or somethin’, huh?”

Up close, the man is visibly shorter than him and narrow, all messy black hair and wide, brown eyes. His face is scuffed, undoubtedly from the earlier alteration, and tinged red, which Keishin assumes is from drinking.

The man blinks back at him, confused and a little scared. “...You’re not going to murder me, right?”

Keishin snorts and steps out of the way to let him come in. “‘Course not. Murder aftermath sounds like a pain in the ass to handle.”

The man seems a little hesitant, but he shuffles in, nonetheless, and promptly bows at the waist. Keishin jumps.

“Thank you for helping me even though we’re complete strangers!”

Keishin grimaces. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, reaching past the man to shut the door, “you don’t gotta bow or nothin’. Any properly raised person woulda done the same.”

The dark-haired man straightens up slowly, frowning. “Most people here would have turned the other way, I think.”

Maybe so, Keishin thinks, offering out a hand. “Name’s Ukai. Ukai Keishin.”

The man smiles, gentle and warm, taking it. “I’m Takeda Ittetsu.”

After the initial introduction, Takeda settles in on the couch with a cup of water while Keishin starts some tea and puts on a proper shirt. It doesn’t really matter too much anymore since their first meeting isn’t really all that orthodox to begin with, but Keishin has nothing if not some manners.

Takeda seems to be sobering up more or less, but he’s clearly still tipsy enough that he’s a danger to himself on the city streets at this hour. Maybe it’s just Keishin wanting the company, but he thinks Takeda doesn’t seem like he’s in any haste to leave regardless.

They talk some over tea. Takeda tells him he’s a teacher – no, he laughs, when Keishin brings it up, I’m not a businessman in that sense – and he teaches high school literature. He seems all too happy to talk about the antics his students get into.

For the first time in a while, Keishin forgets about the city.

When he wakes in the morning, draped awkwardly on one end of the couch with a blanket over him, Takeda is gone. There’s a note on top of the TV, where Keishin luckily sees it quickly.

It’s a hastily scribbled thank you and goodbye.

Keishin crumbles it up and throws it away, stepping out for another cigarette.

Things return to what Keishin has come to call normal. He doesn’t think about Takeda Ittetsu or the brief warmth that had come into his shitty apartment the moment the teacher had crossed the threshold. He works, he comes home, and repeat. Occasionally, he goes to the gym. Generally, sleep evades him.

“Keishin,” his mom says over the phone, days later, her voice hardly audible over the bustle of people on the sidewalk, “you’re twenty-six already. Haven’t you found a nice girl yet? You’ll be thirty before you know it and then it’ll be much harder for you!”

He’s watching the traffic light impatiently, waiting for it to change so he can cross. The walk sign on the opposite end seems to be taking its sweet time, though. Keishin just wants an excuse to get off the phone.

“Ma,” he sighs, “I already told you, it’ll happen when it happens. I don’t have time for a relationship right now, anyway.”

It’s the easiest thing to tell himself. The light finally signals for them to walk, and Keishin hurries across the street with the rest of the crowd. A man jars him from the side and he nearly drops his phone. Instinctively, he checks his pockets and-- Sure enough, his wallet is gone.

“Ma, I gotta go,” he grumbles, hanging up as he shoves through the people after the man. God, he’s not in the mood for this today.

The man breaks into a run the moment he realizes he’s being pursued and Keishin races after him. His wallet is the last thing he can afford to lose, and of course the one day he forgot his chain is the day he gets pickpocketed.

“Oi!” He shouts, irritated and exhausted, shouldering through people. At this rate he’ll get--

He watches the guy suddenly eat shit, feet coming right out from him.

--away.

Huh. Keishin slows to a stop and yanks the guy up by his collar, snatching his wallet back with a snarl. The man has a bloody nose from hitting the concrete so hard, and Keishin can’t help the little sting of pleasure from the karma.

“Oh, no,” says another voice from behind him, “I didn’t mean to make him hurt himself! I just meant for him to trip up a little, but he was going so fast-”

Keishin turns around. Takeda Ittetsu stands behind him, looking distressed out of his mind and suspiciously like he’s close to panicking. Keishin puts the pieces together. Takeda’s presence, the man abruptly wiping out.

“Did you… trip him?” He asks slowly.

Takeda straightens up when he’s addressed, gaze darting to Keishin’s, and then away again. “I, um. I saw you chasing him a-and he reminded me of those two from that night I almost got mugged and I just… reacted?”

Keishin drops the man in favor of howling with laughter. He barely even notices when the almost thief scrambles away. “Damn!” He laughs, slapping Takeda on the back so hard that the man stumbles and his glasses slide halfway down his nose. “I didn’t know you had it in ya, sensei!”

Takeda fixes his glasses, glancing up at Keishin. “Neither did I.”

He finds out Takeda had been waiting for a taxi to head home. He’s got a bag full of books over his shoulder. Keishin’s admittedly a little surprised – in a place like this, running into someone twice by coincidence isn’t a very easy feat. He hadn’t thought for a second he’d meet Takeda again.

“I was on my way to get groceries,” Keishin tells him, “so it woulda been a pain in the ass to lose my wallet. Normally, I have a chain for it, but I completely forgot to attach my new one after my old one broke.”

“Oh,” Takeda’s eyebrows rise, “that’s a really good idea. I didn’t think about a chain.”

“Can ya even wear one as a teacher?”

Takeda considers this. “No,” he finally admits, “probably not.”

“You’re doomed,” Keishin remarks, patting the other man’s shoulder. “In any case, thanks for your help with that. I’d better be off.”

“Oh, wait!” Takeda scrambles after him. “Let me thank you properly for the other night.”

“Huh? I think you’ve definitely repaid me plenty just now.”

“At least let me treat you to drinks or something,” Takeda persists.

Keishin gets the feeling this guy is a very, very stubborn person. He frowns a little at the determined furrow between Takeda’s wide eyes and the little, persistent downward curl of his mouth.

In hindsight, this is the exact moment Ukai Keishin could have pegged himself as screwed.

“Fine,” he sighs, “but not alcohol. I’ve seen firsthand how you handle that. Coffee or somethin’ is fine.”

Takeda visibly brightens. “Great! When works for you? I don’t have any other plans today, and tomorrow is Sunday so I’m off too, but during the week I’m not done until about three if I'm lucky…”

Keishin considers the fact that this sounds suspiciously like a date, but ah, what does he know? He hasn’t been on a date since he was twenty. Besides, he barely knows this guy.

“We can go now,” he replies, deciding it’d be best to get it out of the way immediately, “I can do my grocery shopping later.”

Takeda takes him to a small cafe near the local dog park. It’s a little more out of the way, and Takeda offers to pay for a cab, but ultimately they end up walking there. Takeda is naturally a slow person, but he tries to speed up and Keishin tries to find a middle ground for them.

It’s only a little successful.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Keishin says as they arrive, opening the door, “I’ve been working at the same convenience store since I moved here four years ago. It’s not the worst. I work at this hole-in-the-wall flower shop, too.”

The bell overhead jingles to announce their arrival. One of the employees calls out a greeting as the two men join the short line. Keishin eyes the menu.

“Well, that just means you’re committed, doesn’t it?” Takeda asks. “I didn’t take you as the flower type. Do you enjoy it?”

Keishin assumes that’s short for you look like a thug, but he takes it in stride. It's not the first time someone had that impression of him. He shrugs noncommittally at the question. He does enjoy gardening, but doing any enjoyable thing for money tends to suck the joy out of it, so he’s not really sure how to answer that. Besides, they’re at the front of the line.

“Get whatever you want!” Takeda tells him.

Keishin ends up getting a medium coffee, nearly black, and dumplings. The dumplings are surprisingly good – a compliment coming from someone as picky as him – and Takeda looks a little terrified at the idea of his nearly black coffee, having gotten a disastrous, caramel loaded abomination himself.

They don’t stay, but they don’t go their separate ways. The dog park is only a little busy, so they sit on a bench nearby, watching some of the dogs playing around. Keishin likes dogs, but he definitely doesn’t have time for those, either. He’d hate to get one and have it on its own most of the time.

“I love dogs,” Takeda voices his thoughts, “but my apartment complex doesn’t allow them.”

“Mine does,” Keishin says, taking a drink of his coffee, “but I don’t really have time or the means to take care of one right now.”

His phone rings again in his pocket. Takeda glances sideways at him as he fishes it out and glances at the caller ID. It’s his mother, probably annoyed after he’d hung up on her earlier. Keishin doesn’t want to deal with it right now, so he ignores the call and mutes his phone.

“You aren’t going to answer it?” Takeda asks tentatively.

“Nah,” Keishin shakes his head, “it’s my ma. She’s just harassing me about my love life, s’all. I ain’t even thirty and she’s tryin’ real hard to make me get married as soon as possible.”

Takeda pauses. “How old are you?”

Keishin grins sideways at him. “Awfully forward, ain’t you?” He asks, and when Takeda looks apologetic, he continues, “I’m kidding. I’m twenty-six.”

Takeda pauses, drink to his lips. “Wait,” he says, “you’re younger than me?”

Keishin’s eyebrows rise. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-nine,” Takeda says.

Keishin snorts, nearly chokes, and then doubles over laughing. “Damn, really? I thought you were my age or a little younger! I guess it makes sense with you bein’ a teacher and all, but you definitely don’t look like you’re almost thirty.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” Takeda admits.

“I wonder,” Keishin remarks, downing his coffee.

They watch the dogs a while longer, but inevitably, Keishin needs to leave. He has to get his shopping done, get home, and go to his night shift at the store. Takeda looks as though he wants to say something more, but ultimately, they say their goodbyes and go their own ways.

Keishin puts Takeda Ittetsu in the back of his mind again, convinced that he’ll more than likely never run into the man again.

Fate has a funny way of proving him wrong, he supposes.

He takes Takeda for a rational person, but this time might just prove him wrong. Keishin stares down at the unsteady dark-haired man, frowning. He’s not sure why Takeda ended up here again, drunk again, but here he is, dressed down in a blue sweater and missing his glasses at eleven at night. He squints back at Keishin, smiling a little lopsidedly.

“Why are you here?” Keishin finally asks.

Takeda beams. “We’re friends! I wanted to see you! Also, I think my coworker has my house keys,” he slurs.

On god, this man was going to be the death of him. Keishin sighs, but he moves out of the way to let Takeda stumble in and shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t bother with a shirt this time.

“Please don’t throw up on my carpet. There’s too many weird stains as is.”

Takeda hears him, he assumes, watching as the teacher locates the bathroom very rapidly on his hands and knees. Keishin starts some tea again. When Takeda returns, he drops down on the couch and burrows underneath the blanket that had been abandoned there, groaning softly.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles, when Keishin nudges him to hand over the tea.

Keishin watches his head resurface from beneath the blanket, still squinting and hair even messier. He isn’t sure how Takeda is this bad at holding his alcohol, or why he keeps doing it despite knowing he’s bad, but Keishin isn’t really one to judge. Besides, he’s still thinking about the whole we’re friends thing Takeda had dropped on him at the door.

Are they friends? He doesn’t want to dwell on that too long.

“It’s fine,” he waves it off. “Drink that and get some rest. You can worry about everything else in the morning.”

He rises from his crouch and crosses to the kitchen to clean up some. Takeda only finishes half the tea before he’s out cold on the couch. Keishin fixes the blanket over him and shuts the lights off, locks the door, and retires to his room.

Sleep evades him.

He spends the first hour staring at the ceiling. When this grows painfully boring, he rolls over to check his phone. TV isn’t an option tonight with Takeda sleeping in the living room, but clearly he isn’t going to be getting much sleep tonight himself. At two, he finally caves and rolls back out of bed.

Keishin slinks quietly into the living room and grabs his new lighter and box of cigarettes off the table, creeping to the window and carefully shuffling it open. Mercifully, it doesn’t squeal this time.

Keishin slides out onto the fire escape, sitting on the outside windowsill so he can listen if Takeda wakes. His new lighter produces a flame immediately, and Keishin lights a cigarette, putting it to his lips. The sting of smoke is familiar, as disgusting as it is. Really, he needs to stop depending on this habit.

There are sirens somewhere in the distance again.

“Ukai?” Takeda’s groggy voice floats from inside the apartment.

“Did I wake ya?” Keishin asks, glancing back.

“No,” Takeda blinks back at him from the couch, squinting to see. “Why are you awake?” “I couldn’t sleep.”

Keishin exhales another breath of smoke and Takeda wrinkles his nose.

“That’s a bad habit,” he says softly. “Do you do this often? Come to think of it… It was the same situation when we met, wasn’t it?”

Yes, Keishin thinks, but he doesn’t reply out loud. Things have changed since then. Not just for him in particular, but for both of them as a whole. Back then, Takeda had just been a complete stranger that Keishin had saved out of the goodness of his upbringing, if not his heart. He takes another drag and exhales into the chilled night air. Goosebumps prickle over his exposed torso.

He can feel Takeda’s gaze on his back.

“Oi, sensei,” he says into the air, “you’re a good person. Stay that way, yeah? You gotta be careful 'round here. City like this'll eat your humanity.”

“Ukai,” Takeda asks softly. “Why do you make yourself suffer like this? You’re a good person, too.”

Keishin takes a long drag of his cigarette. For a moment, he considers not answering. It would make it easier. He could just finish his cigarette and go to sleep. Takeda probably isn’t going to remember any of this in the morning anyway.

But he finally exhales.

“I stopped focusing on what made me happy,” he breathes, “it makes life a lot easier.”

He almost misses Takeda’s whisper.

“Not from where I stand.”

Keishin leans back on his hands, cigarette in between his lips and gaze fixed on the starless sky. It's lonely.

“...Go to sleep, Takeda.”

In the morning, there’s another hastily scribbled note. Ukai, it reads, I’m so sorry about my state last night. Thank you again for letting me stay.

There’s a phone number at the bottom in lieu of a signature. Keishin plugs it into his contacts.

Somehow, slowly, Takeda Ittetsu slowly becomes a cornerstone of Keishin’s life. They see each other frequently and text even more. Keishin gets scolded about his phone more than once at work and he feels like he’s a teenager again. Takeda visits often and somehow makes a home in Keishin’s shitty little place, and sometimes Keishin goes to his own cramped apartment, simple and flower-filled and very much Takeda.

But somehow, Takeda ends up back at Keishin’s house every time he goes drinking without fail.

It occurs to Keishin, one night, when a half sober Takeda is slung over the arm of his ratty couch, hunched over a trash can, that Keishin isn’t so tired of the city anymore. He misses home certainly, but in the near year he’s known Takeda now, he’s become more at ease. It’s easier to breathe now.

“Oi,” he knocks a glass of water lightly against Takeda’s head.

Takeda looks up, glasses disheveled, hair messy, and eyes glazed over. He’s in various states of disarray, but even under the dim lighting of the apartment, there’s something so brilliant about him that Keishin thinks he might be a little in love.

Takeda shifts to sit a little more upright and curls his fingers around the cup of water, but Keishin doesn’t quite let go. Takeda squints at their overlapped hands.

“You don’t work weekends,” Keishin states more than asks, “so come back home with me this weekend.”

Takeda frowns unsteadily. “But we are at your house.”

Keishin releases the cup. “No,” he says, “home. Back in the country.”

“Oh,” says Takeda, but then he puts the cup to his lips and doesn’t reply.

Keishin wakes in the morning to Takeda sitting on the kitchen counter, a cup of hot tea in his hands and a pensive expression resting on his features. He’s a little surprised because even now, Takeda is usually gone by the time he gets up, having left a note or a text. He’s still in some sort of state of disarray, though he looks as though he’d made an attempt to clean up.

“Morning,” Keishin greets, bending to dig through the refrigerator.

“Good morning,” Takeda replies absently, frowns, and then continues, “Ukai, did you mean what you said yesterday?”

Keishin glances up in confusion. “'Bout what?”

“Me- Me coming back… home with you?” He won’t meet Keishin’s eyes.

“Ah, I didn’t think you’d remember that,” Keishin admits. “I guess. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, so you don’t gotta worry about it if you don’t wanna. Figured it might be nice to have a break, s’all.”

“Okay.”

“Huh?”

“Okay,” Takeda repeats, pushing his glasses up his nose, “I’ll come.”

Keishin grins crookedly. “Okay.”

So they go.

Keishin had already taken the weekend off, having planned to go home this weekend anyway. Sometimes, a break is just a good change of pace, even if he's finally gotten himself in a good state of mind in the city. They leave in the late afternoon, after Takeda is finished at the school, and head straight to the train for the long ride ahead.

It’s dark by the time they arrive, and Takeda is out cold, leaning heavily against Keishin. He nudges the other man awake and guides him out of the train. Takeda’s awake the moment the cold air hits his face. It’s even colder here than in the city since it’s further north, but it’s more open for the wind as well.

“Wow,” Takeda breathes, and for a moment, Keishin isn’t sure what he’s talking about.

He follows Takeda’s gaze up and his breath steals away in a manner that he’d nearly forgotten. The stars blanket the sky above them, brilliant little pinpricks of light across the expanse of swirling darkness, flickering and blinking down at the earth. The more rational part of him knows they’re nothing impressive, nothing more than massive balls of gas billions of miles away from them, but it does nothing to diminish the fact that he’s desperately missed the sight of them.

“I’ve seen stars in theory,” Takeda says, “but I’ve lived in cities my whole life. I’ve never… seen them in person.”

Keishin smiles. “Trust me, it’s not a sight you’ll ever get tired of.”

Takeda gazes at him then, and Keishin isn’t sure what he sees in the other man’s eyes.

He apologizes in advance, later, for his parents. His mother is, as expected, overbearing, but nonetheless excited that Keishin has a friend to bring home. She gives him a curious little sidelong look that he pointedly ignores.

They crash as soon as they hit the pillows. Saturday blows by in a whirlwind of meeting up with old friends and getting back to old hobbies. Keishin remembers the stings of a volleyball on his hands as surely as he’d been in high school. Setting is still second nature. Takeda watches from the sidelines, eyes wide and attention rapt, and if Keishin shows off a little for his sake, nobody says anything about it.

“There’s one more place,” Keishin says, as the sun dips below the horizon later that evening, “I always went there as a teen. It should still be fine, I think.”

It’s just nearing the end of the autumn, in any case, so he thinks it should still be around. The weather is getting colder every day. Keishin absently drapes one of his two scarves around Takeda’s shoulders and takes the lead into the back parts of town where he’d run wild as a boy.

They crest a hill, breath forming white clouds in the chilled night air, and sure enough, red cloaks the tree-dotted area on the other side. Spider-lilies. Takeda gasps at the crest, gazing down in awe even as Keishin carries on, picking his way towards the central cove.

“I loved it here in high school,” Keishin admits, “I got into gardening for a while over it, but that ain't easy in the city, so it kinda fell to the wayside.”

"Is that why you work at the flower shop?" Takeda asks.

Keishin hums noncommittally. "Maybe."

He drops rather unceremoniously into a slightly emptier patch and lays on his back, staring at the sky. Takeda carefully sits beside him, tucking his knees up for warmth. The ground beneath them is cold, and Keishin knows the flowers won’t be alive for much longer.

“I always came here to stargaze. I’d sit for hours. It was kinda a safe haven, I guess.”

He looks to Takeda, expecting him to be looking at the sky, but to his surprise, the man’s dark eyes are fixed on him, glittering in the darkness like they’re reflecting the starlight itself. Keishin’s heart does a funny little thing in his chest, something he’s started to become comfortable with associating with Takeda.

“Ukai,” Takeda says, voice soft, as if he’s afraid of being heard, lips parted and one hand raised like he’s going to reach out.

“Aw, man,” Keishin tells him, “don’t look at me like that. I don’t know if I can stop myself, then.”

“Then don’t,” Takeda whispers, leaning in to meet Keishin’s mouth halfway.

His mother gives him another knowing look when he smiles privately at Takeda the next morning, but he pretends, once again, not to notice.

--

“In hindsight,” Keishin tells him, years later, when they’re thirty-two and thirty-five, living together with two dogs, five years into their relationship and counting, “I think you started a lot of the changes in my life that I ended up desperately needing.”

Ittetsu laughs as he rolls over, tucking his arm around Keishin’s waist. “You should learn to listen to your elders better!”

Keishin snorts. “I don’t have to take shit from a cradle robber like you.”

“Cra-?!”

Ittetsu sputters indignantly, and Keishin howls with laughter. Five years ago, he’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to laugh so freely.

Nowadays, he can’t even imagine living how he had before. Maybe when autumn comes around again, he’ll take Ittetsu back to the spider-lily field. Maybe he’ll buy a ring this time.

“I think I should save pretty teachers from getting mugged in alleys more often, don’t you?”

[boku-no-boys-zine]

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[villainscomplex]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Yoo, I did the @bnhafantasybigbang w/ @theuselesscucumber as my partner, so make sure you check out the gorgeous companion piece here!

[villainscomplex]

your voice leaves me breathless

eyyy, we’re finally allowed to post our @lowlightszine pieces! Literally everything about this zine was AMAZING, and I loved working with everyone. It’s a zine I’ll miss, that’s for sure. 

my whipped self wrote tetsukami ofc so here we go oop

You can also find it on:

AO3

Wattpad

Quotev

FF.net

--------------------

When he’s a kid, Tetsutetsu sits at his father’s feet. Tetsutetsu Kenji is a narrow man, not too tall, and gray to his roots. It’s a curse in their family, he always says, the early gray hair, or the always gray hair in Tetsutetsu’s case. His father is all worn smiles and gentle but firm hands, and he looks at Tetsutetsu’s mom like she’s the center of the universe. Sometimes, late at night, Tetsutetsu hears them dancing to old music that he doesn’t recognize, and they laugh until the sun comes up. When he’s a kid, Tetsutetsu sits at his father’s feet and watches him gaze wistfully out the window. He’s never quite sure what his father is looking at; there’s this film covering Kenji’s dark eyes like his mind creeps somewhere that Tetsutetsu can never hope to reach. “You have to be careful,” his father tells him one evening, voice a passing whisper, face dipped in flitting shadows, “or a city like this will eat your mind.”

Tetsutetsu doesn’t really understand it at the time, but his father smiles gently and everything is right again, if only just for the moment. 

Tetsutetsu grows up in a city that never sleeps. Every single moment of every single day is filled to the brim with unrelenting noise and bright lights, and time seems to slip through his fingers like sand through an hourglass. He lives on repeat like a broken record: school, work, home again, and it’s like he’s holding his breath, grasping uselessly at the hours and minutes and seconds that tick past him in a whirlwind of color.

He moves into his first apartment with his two dogs when he’s twenty-one. His parents are tearful when he leaves, but knows they won’t stay in the city for much longer. Tetsutetsu Kenji and Hoshi are free spirits and staying in a place like this saps the life from them. He sees it in their eyes, in the restless way their fingers grasp at the handles on the trains. They’ll leave soon. Tetsutetsu isn’t like them. When he leaves, he feels like they’re the only ones gaining any semblance of freedom. He’s merely opting to stay behind, allowing them to release the weight keeping them there. He meets Kaminari Denki by unadulterated chance. He’s a few paces behind when a man grabs for the shoulder bag a blond boy in front of him is carrying – but the blond boy doesn’t let go. In all his maybe five-foot-seven glory, Tetsutetsu watches this lightning bolt of a boy sneer at his would-be thief, even as he’s desperately threatening him. “Oi!” Tetsutetsu calls out, never one to stand by idly, drawing the man’s attention to him.

He looks terrified, and rightfully so, because Tetsutetsu is a six-foot-five wall of muscle and doesn’t really look too happy. “Don’t be—“ Tetsutetsu blinks, and suddenly a taser is shoved into the thief’s side. “— a jerk!” Oh, Tetsutetsu thinks, a little surprised by this spitfire of a boy, as the thief seizes and drops to the ground. It’s almost comedic how delicately, the boy steps over him and prances right over to Tetsutetsu, unceremoniously shoving the taser back into his bag. “Yo!” He greets cheerfully. “Thanks for distracting him!” “Uh,” says Tetsutetsu, eloquently, “it… ain’t a problem, I think. You did most of the work.” “Teamwork, then!” He laughs, sticking out his hand. “I’m Kaminari Denki. Mind if I get you a coffee to repay you?”

“Uh,” Tetsutetsu replies again, slowly reaching to shake, “yeah? I’m Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu.”

He takes the boy’s hand, a silent pact, sealing his fate for the days to come. Tetsutetsu’s lived in the city his whole life, and yet Kaminari manages to lead him to a hole-in-the-wall café that he’s never seen before. It’s a quaint little place, tiny and comfortable with dimmed lights and chalkboard walls, beanbags and couches littering the floor. Kaminari’s insistent on buying the drinks and goes to a particular corner booth like he’s done it a million times before. “How do ya know about this place?” Tetsutetsu asks him, gazing around. “My best friend performs here every Saturday,” Kaminari answers, matter-of-factly. “I’m staying with her while I’m in town, so I get to attend her performances and play with her sometimes.” “You’re a musician, then?” Kaminari visibly lights up. “Yeah! I’m on the road a lot because of it – I’m only here for a month and a half, but ‘Rou introduced me to this place the first night I came in. She’s friends with the owner, so he has her perform here every weekend. Brings in a lotta business for both of them. Music’s been our thing since we were kids.” His smile softens. “But I wanted to see the world, y’know?” Tetsutetsu doesn’t know. His world exists only within the city limits. Kaminari leans forward to rest his elbows on the table, dropping his chin on his palm. “What about you, huh?” He asks with a little laugh, the toe of his combat boots nudging Tetsutetsu’s shin beneath the table. “I’m doing all the talking. Who’s Tetsutetsu?” Tetsutetsu isn’t sure how to answer that. Who is Tetsutetsu? A boy who’s spending his life withering away in a city that’s constantly on, with no path in mind besides tomorrow? He takes a sip of his coffee - as bitter as he’d requested - while Kaminari’s own is some caramel abomination. Tetsutetsu isn’t sure how he stomachs something that sweet. “I work at a gym,” he finally says, “and I live downtown in an apartment with my dogs, Mio and Ryo. Nothin’ too impressive. I’m no traveling musician or somethin’ like that.” “Of course,” Kaminari beams, raising his cup in acknowledgment, “that’d be too easy, wouldn’t it?” “Maybe,” Tetsutetsu agrees with a crooked smile, and fifteen minutes later, they go their separate ways. Tetsutetsu doesn’t expect to run into the storm that is Kaminari Denki again. Strokes of luck like that are fleeting, a brief, particularly bright light in the passing blur of street signs. Against all odds, the universe has more plans for Tetsutetsu than this fast-lane existence, and three days later, he startles at the sight of a familiar face smashing up against the glass doors of the gym he works in.

Kaminari brightens visibly when he spots Tetsutetsu, half tripping through the doors and bypassing the front counter entirely. He looks so out of place here, bright and golden against the metallics of the machines, tiny and narrow and birdlike against the bulk of people Tetsutetsu is used to training. “I found you!” He grins. “It only took eight other gyms, too!” Tetsutetsu can’t even ask him if he’d really searched through every gym in the city because Kaminari’s thrusting his phone into Tetsutetsu’s hand. Tetsutetsu stares down at the blinking line on the new contact screen, aware of the expectant gaze on him.

“We never exchanged numbers,” Kaminari says, as if it’s a perfectly good explanation as to why he’d spent the past three days searching half the gyms in the city for a guy who may not have been working that day. Tetsutetsu can’t help it; he laughs. His laugh is loud and boisterous and for once, carefree. “You’re one crazy dude, Kaminari Denki,” he remarks, putting his number in and saving it, “searching half the city for one guy.” When Kaminari smiles, it’s like all the lights are drawn to him, slowing down for just a heartbeat to revolve around this human-shaped sun. Suffice to say, Kaminari learns his schedule quickly. He’s outside when Tetsutetsu gets off, and they walk the same direction to return home. Kaminari always breaks off halfway there and carries on with a little bounce to his step and a hum on his lips. They talk about anything that comes to mind. Tetsutetsu tells Kaminari about Mio and Ryo, about how they were street dogs before he’d taken them in, and now they were his closest companions. Kaminari tells Tetsutetsu about growing up with his best friend – Jirou, he says – and how he got into music. As winter creeps in on every clouded breath, Kaminari talks about the night-time. “I grew up in a small town,” he tells Tetsutetsu, soft laughter forming hazy clouds around his rosy cheeks, “so the night was all I had. The fireflies would come out, these tiny little bugs blinking in the darkness, and Jirou and I would go out and dance among them for hours.” “I don’t really care for the night-time.” Tetsutetsu admits, lips tugging down. “Around here, it’s just dangerous.” Kaminari grins. “That just means you haven’t seen it properly yet.” His fingers lace in between Tetsutetsu’s and breaks them from their usual course home, back towards the city center and to the park. It’s quieter here, near silent, and it has Tetsutetsu on guard instinctively. Kaminari still has his hand, but he seems so at ease, falling into a slow, easy pace alongside him as he guides them to a secluded area near the park’s center. “I come here every chance I get,” Kaminari breathes. “It’s the only place in the city you can see the stars.” Kaminari drops onto the grass and tows Tetsutetsu into the spot next to him. He looks up and Tetsutetsu follows his gaze and – ah. Overhead, the sky is an expanse of glitter: swirls of stars and galaxies painting the sky like a mural. Tetsutetsu can’t remember the last time he saw the stars like this – saw them outside of photographs and television screens at all. He wonders if this is the sight Kaminari grew up with. He looks to Kaminari, glowing like a beacon in the darkness. It’s amazing how awed he still seems to be by this, even though he’s undoubtedly seen it a million times before. He doesn’t know if it’s the stars or the way Kaminari looks at them that takes his breath away, but it steals the air from his lungs like a whirlwind. “You know, I was an awful student in school,” Kaminari admits, turning to face Tetsutetsu, and he’s so close that Tetsutetsu can feel the warmth of his breath, “class clown and all. But, man, they’d start talking about all the constellations and stuff and I just— like, isn’t that the coolest? It’s terrifying that we’re all the way down here and so tiny, but it’s amazing that there’s so much cool stuff out there. All those… space rocks and planets.” There’s something about the enchantment in Kaminari’s eyes, the sense of wonder in his voice, high and excited and wavering, that makes Tetsutetsu stop breathing altogether. He stops and listens to the way his heart thrums in his ears, stops and watches the way Kaminari gestures widely and enthusiastically. “We used to run through the fields and try to catch the fireflies. But after that, we’d lay in the grass and try to find the constellations. The dippers were the easiest, and Ursa Major and Minor by extension, but we’d spend so much time trying to count all the stars and finding our favorites. Jirou’s favorite constellation was the Archer. I always liked Perseus.” He laughs again, and turns his head to gaze at Tetsutetsu with a quiet sort of fondness. “Hey, Tetsutetsu?”

Kaminari’s eyes are so, so gold, molten and warm.

“Thanks for coming.” Tetsutetsu gazes back for a long moment. Perhaps he can learn to enjoy the night-time after all. “Thanks for bringin’ me,” he replies, reaching out to take Kaminari’s hand again. He’s constantly aware of their limited time together, about what happens when their month and a half ends, but Tetsutetsu begins to spend nights like this with Kaminari, and the more he does, the more he understands the allure of it all. There’s something soft about the darkness, especially here in the park, where he feels so far away from everything he knows. Here, with Kaminari, he’s far from the noise and the blinding city lights and the constant life all around him. Here, everything seems to slow down and focus into the streak of sensation that creeps up Tetsutetsu’s arm when Kaminari takes his hand. Kaminari rolls over to face Tetsutetsu one night in the grass, wind wreathing around them, and his fingertips are so, so gentle over Tetsutetsu’s cheek. He thinks Kaminari is like a firefly himself, a pinprick of light in the ever-present darkness, delicate and beautiful. Ah, Tetsutetsu thinks, as the soft press of Kaminari’s lips against his own gives him an entirely new reason to enjoy the night.

He exhales.