Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7249612.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Gen
  Fandom:
      僕だけがいない街_|_ERASED
  Relationship:
      Fujinuma_Satoru/Kobayashi_Kenya, Fujinuma_Satoru/Yashiro_Gaku
  Character:
      Fujinuma_Satoru, Kobayashi_Kenya, Yashiro_Gaku, Sugita_Hiromi, Hinazuki
      Kayo, Fujinuma_Sachiko
  Additional Tags:
      Drabble_Collection, Tumblr_Prompt, Tie_Kink, Cigarettes, Spider
      Demon!Yashiro, Alternate_Universe_-_Soulmates, Oral_Fixation, Alternate
      Universe_-_Sugar_Daddy, Alternate_Universe_-_Second_Killer, Alternate
      Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alternate_Universe_-_Little_Red_Riding_Hood
      Fusion, Alternate_Universe_-_Magical_Girls, Angst, breaking_up, Post-
      Relationship, Alternate_Universe_-_Western, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics,
      Sirens
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-06-20 Updated: 2017-12-31 Chapters: 20/? Words: 99456
****** Bokumachi Tumblr Prompts ******
by creamycomet
Summary
     A collection of prompts I've filled on tumblr. Ships and keywords are
     in the chapter titles.
     (Not every chapter is explicit and warnings don't apply to every
     prompt.)
***** KenSato, ties *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt on tumblr located here.
The first time Satoru stayed over at Kenya’s apartment, he realized quickly
that he enjoyed watching the blond get ready.
Being a mangaka gave Satoru a varied schedule, and he took advantage, often
opting to trudge into his studio somewhere closer to noon when he could help
it. But Kenya had strict hours to adhere to, and his alarm mercilessly roused
them both from their sleep at 6:00 A.M.
Which didn’t mean Satoru had to actually get up, so he didn’t. He left his
tousled bedhead on the pillow, and watched his boyfriend get dressed through
half-asleep eyes. Kenya put on his suit like soldiers put on their fatigues:
with a practiced rigidity and a stern look on his face, like he was getting
ready to go to war. Satoru opened his mouth wide to yawn, and found his jaw
going slack half-way through the motion, just as Kenya pushed a tie up to his
throat.
Oh, that—oh.
That really shouldn’t have been so hot. There was something about the—the
authorityin that simple motion, when formality met capability. It made
absolutely no sense, but regardless, Satoru felt the heat rising to his face
and burning underneath his skin. Kenya turned back to him as he straightened
out his lapels, and Satoru practically melted into the sheets. “I’ll see you
for dinner?”
“Y-yeah,” Satoru muttered, desperately trying to pretend he was still capable
of coherent thought. He leaned up on his elbow as his partner strode over to
the bed, tugging at the end of his sleeves. They pressed their lips together in
a quick kiss, and Satoru let himself fall back into the sheets, one hand raised
in a tired wave. “Have a good day.”
Kenya gave a short laugh, pressing one more kiss to his boyfriend’s forehead.
“You too. Go back to sleep.”
And with that, he was gone. As much as Satoru would have loved to fall back
asleep for at least four more hours, images of Kenya tightening his tie around
his neck sent jolt after electric jolt between his legs. He groaned and turned
to bury his face into the pillow, and resigned himself to being awake, at least
until he took care of the growing ache under his boxers.
So, really, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when later that night, he
practically jumped his boyfriend the second they were through the door.
He locked their lips together, hungrily deepening the kiss as he pushed Kenya
down onto the bed. Satoru straddled his lover’s hips, pressing and grinding
against him with his hand fisted around the blond’s tie. He could feel Kenya
groaning into the kiss, and Satoru took that as an opportunity to pull away,
panting and flushed. His boyfriend leaned up as if to follow, and Satoru
pressed a hand to his shoulder and pushed him back against the sheets, running
his hand along the wool of his blazer.
“What’s gotten into you?” the lawyer whispered, watching as Satoru sat up
against his hips and peeled off his shirt.
“You don’t like it?” Satoru replied, slowly unzipping his jeans. Kenya gave
another appreciative groan, his fingers finding Satoru’s hips and slowly
trailing up the exposed skin. His fingers splayed across the pale chest, and
Satoru shuddered and arched into the touch, his eyes half-lidded with lust.
“I didn’t say that,” Kenya grunted, leaning up to press his mouth to Satoru’s
collarbone. The mangaka let out another shaky pant as he felt Kenya’s tongue,
pressing and dragging along his neck. The feeling sent ecstasy shuddering
through him, and he gripped Kenya’s shoulders as he leaned into it, tilting his
head obligingly. It wasn’t long until Kenya’s hand reappeared, his fingers
teasingly brushing against his nipple. Satoru buried his face into the head of
blond hair as he leaned into the touch, his hot breath mingling with the smell
of Kenya’s shampoo.
After a moment, the hand and mouth retreated—though only barely, but still too
far—and Satoru looked down to see Kenya reaching to remove his own clothes.
Instantly his ink-stained hands flew to his boyfriend’s, pushing them away from
the knots and buttons that kept Kenya’s suit on his frame. “Don’t,” he pleaded,
panting against his boyfriend’s temple as he moved to squirm out of his own
underwear. “Leave them on.”
Kenya raised his eyebrows, but obediently removed his fingers. Satoru pushed
him back down against the mattress, and hovered—completely naked, and achingly
aroused—over his boyfriend. Careful not to disturb the tie, he slowly
unbuttoned Kenya’s dress shirt without removing it, licking and tasting every
bit of his lover’s torso that he could find. He felt a rumble under his lips as
Kenya groaned, his fingers threading into Satoru’s dark black hair.
Spurred on, he moved farther and farther south, his fingers clumsily attempting
to remove Kenya’s belt at breakneck speed. The buckle met the floor with a
clang, swiftly followed by a sudden hitch of breath as Satoru pressed his face
against his briefs. He moved his lips against fabric, panting against and
mouthing the bulge teasingly, staring up at the blonde through his dark bangs.
“Satoru,” Kenya breathed, gently pushing his boyfriend’s head encouragingly
between his legs as he arched up. He would never get over seeing Kenya like
this: the man who was usually so practical and composed, conquered by
desperation and wanting and lust. Knowing that he was the one who did this to
him, it was—Satoru didn’t know how to describe it, but it gave him a confidence
he didn’t know he had. It drove him on, and he pulled Kenya’s underwear down
and eagerly took him into his mouth. Instantly the blond threw his head back
against the pillows, his legs tight as Satoru’s lips moved up and down the
shaft.
Kenya let out an airy sigh as Satoru hummed around his boyfriend’s cock,
pressing his tongue against the tip. He could feel Kenya’s fingers curling a
little in his hair, hopelessly trying to keep Satoru’s mouth exactly where it
was. He could even feel those hips bucking ever so slightly, desperate for a
faster pace, barely contained by Kenya’s compassionate self-control. Satoru
pulled back as much as Kenya’s grip would allow, feeling a long string of
saliva trail after him. He pressed his lips affectionately to the side of the
shaft, and whispered: “Lube.”
Kenya untangled one of his hands from Satoru’s hair, and blindly groped in the
night table until he found what he was looking for. Satoru finally sat up
straight, and he took the bottle gratefully, spilling the gel onto his own
fingers as he hovered above Kenya’s hips. The blond swallowed thickly and ran
his hands appreciatively over Satoru’s thighs, his voice low and thick with
desire. “Do you want me to—?”
“No,” Satoru interrupted, his face erupting in red as he pressed his slicked
hand to his entrance. “Just—just watch.”
He pressed the first finger inside and took in the sight of Kenya beneath him:
his dress shirt undone, his tie hanging slightly loosely from his neck. His
boyfriend’s hands crawled steadily upwards along his legs, before one hand
wrapped itself around Satoru’s cock, pumping slowly. He groaned into it,
arching forward into Kenya’s touch as he slid another digit inside. Satoru
brought his free hand to his mouth, panting against his fingers. “K-Kenya—”
He didn’t want to wait anymore. Satoru removed his hand from inside himself,
and he reached down for something bigger than his fingers, lining Kenya up
against his entrance. He gave one look to his boyfriend below him, his blue
eyes meeting Kenya’s brown, both of them eager and tense. With his lover’s
wordless approval, Satoru slowly lowered himself down, feeling the familiar
sensation of Kenya pressing his way in.
He felt hands grip at his waist, and once he was fully inside, Satoru paused to
give himself time to adjust. In hindsight, he hadn’t spread himself as much as
he was used to: it was tight, but—not entirely unpleasant; if anything, it was
the opposite. It didn’t take long until his ecstasy spurred him onwards, and he
stared down at Kenya as he began to rock his hips, watching the flickers of
pleasure pass across his boyfriend’s face.
“G-good?” Satoru asked, chewing at his lower lip.
“Amazing,” Kenya confirmed, pulling Satoru’s waist down encouragingly as he
gave a small thrust up. The artist gave a small groan, his back arcing forward
as he began to find a steady rhythm. The first time they’d done this, Satoru
had been tense, inexperienced and timid—but now he felt bold, riding Kenya’s
hips and setting their pace. He reached down and grabbed hold of the tie that
had started this in the first place, and as he sat up straight, he dragged
Kenya upwards with him. He gripped the fabric as if his life depended it,
pulling Kenya into a bruising kiss and holding him there, tethered to Satoru’s
lips by the material under his collar.
The silk felt good between his fingers, but not as good as Kenya’s tongue and
cock, both of them tangling in him and overwhelming his senses. He rolled his
hips in the way that made his mind go blank, groaning against the blond’s
mouth. Satoru half-opened his eyes, his fist still holding the necktie taut and
keeping his boyfriend close. He panted against his lips, and whispered:
“Kenya—”
And without warning, the heat under his skin exploded; he leaned forward to
bury his face in Kenya’s shoulder, riding out his orgasm with a shudder and a
loud groan into the fabric of his blazer. He could feel Kenya give a few more
deep, fitful thrusts, before a low sigh of relief washed over Satoru’s ears. He
could feel his boyfriend bury himself inside of him, and for a long moment,
Satoru just tried to catch his breath, still tightly gripping Kenya’s tie.
Eventually, Kenya slowly pulled out, and they collapsed back against the
pillows with Satoru still lying against his lover’s chest. There was a long
moment of silence before Kenya gave a low laugh, pushing his light, sweat-
soaked bangs away from his face. “So. Suits?”
Satoru groaned in embarrassment against his boyfriend’s clothes, before
correcting: “Necktie.”
Kenya gave a small hum, running his hand through Satoru’s dark hair. “I need to
expand my wardrobe, then.”
Despite the red blooming across his face, Satoru couldn’t help the laugh that
escaped his throat. He gave a light, playful punch to his boyfriend’s chest.
“Asshole.”
 
***** KenSato, cigarette *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt on tumblr located here.
Kenya leaned against the balcony railings, exhaling smoke into the dark. It was
one of those horribly humid Tokyo nights, where the air itself seemed to be
made of pure heat. He dangled his cigarette in one hand, and clutched a bottle
of beer in the other, the cold drink refreshing in sticky weather like this.
His watch told him it was past 2:00 A.M., but he still couldn’t go to sleep,
not yet—he still had files to prepare, witness statements to compile, opening
arguments to write.
But he graced himself with this quick break, and he took another long drag of
tobacco before a sleepy voice interrupted him. “Kenya?”
The blond turned around, and smiled at the sight of exhausted boyfriend. Satoru
blinked at him through half-lidded eyes, his dark hair sticking in every
possible direction at once. He looked like he was still more asleep than not,
rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye as he stepped out onto the
balcony.
“I thought you went to bed,” Kenya said, tapping his ash into the tray he’d
brought with him outside.
“I did,” Satoru muttered back, shooting the lawyer with a pointed, accusatory
stare—a frighteningly effective trait he’d picked up from his mother. “Why’re
you still up?”
“Still working,” Kenya sighed, turning back to the Tokyo skyline. “Just taking
a moment to collect my thoughts.”
The mangaka gave a knowing hum, and sleepily leaned against the railing with a
yawn, swaying on his feet. For a moment they just stood side-by-side, their
skin prickling and wet in the humidity; Satoru wordlessly plucked Kenya’s beer
from his hand and gave it a sip. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, a thin bead
of sweat trickling down his veins. When he pulled the bottle away a small sigh
escaped his lips, and he held onto the drink with a loose grip. “Do you think
he ever smoked?”
Kenya gave his boyfriend a side-long glance, speaking around his cigarette.
“Who?”
“Yashiro.”
The blond’s entire body tensed. So that was why Satoru was awake—he must have
had another nightmare. They had become less and less frequent, but as far as
Kenya could tell, no less destructive. Satoru never told him what exactly
happened in the dreams that jolted him awake in the middle of the night, but
Kenya could put two and two together. In the moments before he woke up,
Satoru’s hands would be clawing at his chest, head thrown back and gasping for
air.
“Why do you ask?”
“He told me he used to, once,” Satoru muttered, bringing the alcohol back to
his lips. “I found candy in the glove compartment of his car. He told me it was
to help him quit smoking, but,” the dark-haired man gave a bitter smile,
“clearly that wasn’t true.”
Kenya can’t remember the last time Satoru spoke so much about any of his
interactions with Yashiro. Generally, he tended to skirt around the topic as
much as possible; as if even mentioning the man gave him more power, made the
reality more real. On one hand, he wanted to tell his boyfriend to stop, to not
force out memories that might hurt more than they heal; some wounds might be
better left undisturbed. But he was also deathly curious. So he opted to remain
silent, letting Satoru talk as much as he wanted to, offering an ear and
continuing to taste tobacco on his tongue.
“So, I guess I’m wondering if he ever smoked,” he whispered. “Or if that was
just a lie, too.”
Kenya gave a soft exhale, the white escaping between his lips and dissolving in
the air. “He lied about a lot of things.”
“Yeah.” Satoru took another very long, determined mouthful of alcohol before
handing the half-finished bottle back to his boyfriend. “I’ll see you in bed?”
Kenya nodded, and he pressed a quick kiss to Satoru’s lips. “I’ll be there
soon. Promise.”
He watched his boyfriend pad back off to the bedroom, and hopefully, back to
sleep. Only when the door clicked softly closed did he feel comfortable enough
to let out the sigh he had been holding. Slowly, he brought the beer back to
his mouth, washing out the memory of his lover’s flat, tired, dejected voice.
Suddenly, Satoru seemed very, very far away.
***** YashiSato, fever *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt located on tumblr here.
“Kayo! You’re still here, I see.”
Yashiro beamed at her as he slid the door to the nurse’s office closed behind
him. He shouldn’t be surprised to find her here: she had been the one to
accompany Satoru here after he’d all but collapsed in the middle of class,
after all. Still, he’d hoped the girl would have scampered off somewhere—the
nurse was out for the day, meaning there was, theoretically, supposed to be no
one here.
In other words, it would have been perfect.
Yet there the girl sat, diligently staying by Satoru’s bedside as the boy slept
under the covers in the cot. She looked up at her teacher with those narrowed,
guarded eyes that Yashiro recognized all too well—he’d worn them himself for
years, after all. Well, he’d learnt better, since: standoffishness was no
substitute for friendly charm. You got more flies with honey than vinegar. He
wondered if it was a lesson Hinazuki Kayo would ever learn—but then his eyes
trailed to the thin, shining thread protruding from the crown of her head, and
he found his answer.
“How is he?” he asked effortlessly, setting his clipboard down on the nurse’s
desk as he approached.
“Still has a fever,” she muttered, her small hand curled around Satoru’s own.
“I see,” Yashiro replied, his eyes drooping in fake concern. He turned back to
her, one hand propped on his hip. “You should get home, Kayo. I’ll stay with
him until Ms. Fujinuma arrives.”
She looked up at him, her cold exterior cracking as her eyes widened. “But—”
He clapped a hand on her shoulder with a hard smile. “I’m sure your mother is
worried about you.”
She flinched under his hand, her entire body going stiff. Bit by bit, he
watched the child’s walls build back up around her. Kayo averted her eyes back
to the ground before giving a curt nod, slowly sliding off the chair. She
spared one last look at Satoru, as if deliberating, before gathering up her
things and exiting without a word. Yashiro held a hand up after her with a
beaming smile, giving a short wave. “See you tomorrow!”
The door closed with a soft click, and Yashiro let the hand and the kind
demeanour fall. Good riddance.He turned back towards the cot, and slowly
marched over to his slumbering student, studying his face. Satoru’s fever was
very high, that much was obvious just by looking at him—the child’s face was
red and slick with sweat, his breathing laboured and deep. It was enough to
push him into a deep sickly sleep, and Yashiro testingly placed his hand
against that burning forehead, calling his name.
“Satoru? Can you hear me?”
The boy leaned into the comparatively cold hand, but otherwise, didn’t stir.
Yashiro sank into the seat with a curious hum, pushing the wet bangs back and
away from Satoru’s face. Of course, this was a golden opportunity—Satoru wasn’t
even awake, let alone aware. Except for Kayo, no one had even seen Yashiro come
in, and he’d planned to take care of her anyway. It would be shockingly easy to
whisk Satoru away, find some lonely corner of town and wrap his hands around
the unconscious boy’s throat.
But Satoru didn’t have a thread, so he didn’t. Instead, he trailed his fingers
down the boy’s temple, along his jaw. He didn’t know how or why, but Satoru had
begun to act—differently, lately. More sure of himself, more determined. There
was a fight in him that hadn’t been there before. At first Yashiro had simply
chalked it up to Satoru wanting to help Kayo, but the more time went on, the
more he suspected it was something more.
For the first time in years, Yashiro was interested. He couldn’t remember the
last time something piqued his curiosity like that, and he pressed his thumb to
Satoru’s mouth, swirling the small lower lip in circles.
You want him. The revelation was both surprising and not at the same time; he’d
never wanted anyone in his life, but he had probably resigned himself to
wanting Satoru long ago. This wasn’t love, no—he never considered himself
capable of such a thing. He wanted to possess him, to take that resolute
innocence and claim it for himself.
So he gave in to his baser desires, and pressed his thumb inside, feeling his
student’s breath on his knuckles. Yashiro took a moment to listen for footsteps
in the hallway, before leaning down and pressing his lips to Satoru’s. He made
sure to be quick, thrusting in and tangling their tongues. It tasted like the
candy Yashiro gave him at lunch, and he gave a short, appreciative noise into
the kiss. He loved it: loved the way Satoru’s brow was furrowing in discomfort,
loved the way the boy’s breath was quickening, loved the feeling of his larger
tongue filling and consuming that small mouth. He pulled back only enough to
nip and bite at Satoru’s lower lip, listening to the little noises that slipped
out of the sleeping boy’s throat before diving back inside for more.
Eventually, he leaned back, his own chest heaving. He didn’t realize when he
had gotten up from his seat, but he was crouching on the bed, his body was
hovering over the red and feverish one below him. You can still do it,he told
himself. He could still steal Satoru away—not to strangle him, but to defile
him. It would be so easy, so simple—
But he didn’t. Instead, Yashiro fetched his handkerchief from his pocket and
gently wiped the residual saliva away from Satoru’s mouth, before doing the
same to himself as he reclaimed his seat. Just in time, too—he could hear the
tell-tale sound of feet approaching. He leaned forward with his elbows on his
knees and his fingers entwined: the perfect caricature of the dutiful and
concerned professor. He pretended to be surprised when the door slid open.
“Oh,” Sachiko said, one hand still on the doorframe. “Yashiro-sensei. I didn’t
know you were still here.”
He offered her a sheepish smile, straightening his spine. “Sorry if I surprised
you,” he offered, standing from his seat. “I didn’t want him to be left alone
like this.”
Her face softened into a smile. “Thank you,” she said, and she strode over to
the bed, her brow furrowing with motherly concern. “I’ll take him home now. He
should be in bed.”
“Agreed.” Yashiro raised his eyebrows at her, as if a thought just popped into
his head. “Ms. Fujinuma, you don’t have a car, correct? Allow me to give you a
ride.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said, reaching down to pick up her son.
“It must be out of your way. We’ll manage.”
But Yashiro was already shrugging on his coat, a bright smile spreading across
his face. “Please. I insist.”
***** YashiSato, gossamer *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt located on tumblr here.
Satoru sighed irritably, looking up and around the maze of tall yet familiar
trees. It wasn’t uncommon for him to cut through the woods: it was the quickest
way back home, a straight shot from the market back to his house. He’d been
using this shortcut all of his life, and fifteen years’ worth of going back and
forth had carved a small footpath through the forest. But recent heavy rains
had eroded the trail, and before he knew it, Satoru was out of sorts and alone.
It would have been laughable if it weren’t so infuriating: what kind of idiot
got lost less than a mile from their own house?
He cursed quietly and rubbed at the back of his head, looking around for
something—anything—he could recognize. The sun was starting to get lower in the
sky, and he opted to following it east, back in the general direction of home.
The last thing he wanted was to be alone in these woods at night: there had
been more than one story of children disappearing in these woods, and though
Satoru was far from a child anymore, the stories still sent a chill ringing up
his spine.
All of this effort for some ink and pens hardly seemed worth it. He shrugged
his pack on his shoulder, and didn’t immediately notice when the dirt gave way
under his heel. With a sharp and sudden cry, he was falling—no, slipping. His
shoulders collided with the cold, dry ground, his satchel spilling his supplies
as his feet disappeared into the hole. His fingers tried to grasp at the grass
for a hold, the broken ink bottles staining his fingers an inky black.
There was something—something strong—seizing his ankle, pulling him below. It
gave a painful tug and he felt more of himself sink into the hole, at least to
the knee. Satoru curled one of his legs and tried to kick at whatever it was,
attacking blindly as he tried to crawl to freedom. The only result was another
cold, clammy somethingwrapping around his other leg. He opened his mouth to
scream, but even that sound was swallowed by the earth as he was suddenly and
painfully pulled into the pit.
Satoru brought up his arms to shield himself from the brambles and sharp stones
slicing at his skin. He felt something slash at his cheek, but he didn’t have
time to process the pain before the incline gave way to a free-fall. A
strangled cry tore itself from his throat as he plunged into the cavern, his
body tearing through layer after layer of silk strands and gossamer. He could
feel the threads tangling in his limbs, wrapping around his wrists and legs and
throat, but he didn’t care—he braced himself for the inevitable hard landing,
only to find it didn’t come.
His body suddenly jerked to a stop mid-plummet, his body bouncing for a moment
before swaying to a stop. For a couple of seconds, Satoru just caught his
breath, coming to terms with the fact that despite falling at least a couple of
hundred feet he was somehow miraculously alive. “Holy shit,” he panted, staring
up at the small pinpricks of daylight he could see trickling in through tiny
cracks in the cavern’s ceiling. Eventually, he tentatively pressed his hands
down against the surface underneath him. It bounced back against his touch, and
it took his adrenaline-fueled brain a second to realize he’d landed on a giant
web. It was sticky against his skin, but sturdy—it had to be, if it had managed
to catch him without breaking.
He slowly, carefully,moved to sit up. He didn’t know how much farther this
cavern went below him, but he didn’t want to find out: he needed to get back to
solid ground, preferably in one piece. Then he would work on finding a way out
of here. He arched up with every intention of getting off this web, only to
realize that he couldn’t.
Satoru gave two short, quick tugs at his wrists, only to find them securely
fastened to the silk: the strands he’d fallen through had fused to the mesh
below, effectively tangling him down. “Fuck,” he hissed, thrashing and
attempting to throw his entire body upwards, but the net only moved with him,
shuddering with every attempt. He was about to try again, but suddenly froze,
his blood running cold in his veins.
He—he could have sworn he heard something. He whipped his head around, as much
as the threads would allow, his eyes wide and looking for any sign of movement.
The cave was too dark for him to really see anything beyond the web he’d landed
on, the broken layers of gossamer hanging around him in thick sheets. For a
second, he allowed himself to think he’d imagined it—but no, there it was
again, a low chuckle, reverberating throughout the underground pit. His whole
body shivered at the sound, and he stilled in his struggling, swallowing
thickly.
“Is—is someone there?”
There was another noise, then: something hard scraping against stone, rapidly
skittering somewhere above him. Satoru tried again to wrench himself free, but
the silk held on like cement, keeping him pinned to the tissue underneath him.
For a second, he could have sworn he saw something move: something with several
legs too many to be human.
He realized suddenly that something had to have made this gigantic web. Satoru
began trying to wrestle himself free with reckless abandon, fueled by
adrenaline and self-survival; he didn’t care if the web snapped, he didn’t care
if he fell below, he just needed to get out of here. The panic continued
flooding his mind, even as something descended to the edge of the net. No
matter how hard he tried, it was no use: no matter how much he strived to jerk
free, he was too thoroughly entwined. Only his fingers had any degree of
freedom, and he clenched them into fists, grunting behind his gritted teeth as
he tossed against the strings.
“You know,” a voice crooned, and Satoru stopped, his heart threatening to beat
right out of his chest. “It’s not often an adult falls into my trap.”
He didn’t want to look, he didn’t, but his neck moved of its own accord. He
turned to face the voice, and if he didn’t know better, he would have sworn
there was a man standing at the corner of the web. But he did know better,
because even in the darkness he couldn’t miss the long, spider-like legs he saw
protruding from his back. The man smiled sweetly—deceptively innocently—as his
unnatural limbs carried him along the threads, his human legs hovering inches
above the surface of the webbing.
“Have you lost your way?”
Yes, but he didn’t say it. The fear had swallowed down every word, every scream
he could think of making. Tattered clothes hung off the creature’s human-like
frame, though they looked like they had been nice, once. When it approached,
Satoru realized it smelled like—like copper and dirt and musk, and he tried to
lean away from the overpowering scent as the not-human descended on top of him.
He hovered close, too close, to the point where Satoru could see every detail
of that disarmingly handsome face. The creature’s body heat was all-
encompassing, coming off of him like waves. Satoru could feel his breathing and
pulse quicken from the proximity, and he’s sure the spider could sense it too;
the corners of his eyes crinkled as a grin spread across his face.
A soft, sticky hand met Satoru’s skin, gripping his jaw and twisting it to the
side. He tried to jerk out of it, but the grip was unnaturally strong, only
enhanced by the thin layer of adhesive that seemed to coat this thing’s
fingertips. For a moment, he didn’t realize what the creature was doing, before
he grasped that this was an inspection. Red eyes trailed along his face and
body, giving a small hum. Then he—it—closed the distance, and Satoru squeezed
his eyes shut as something hot and wet met his cheek.
The beast’s tongue lapped at the wound below his eye, dragging and savouring
the fresh blood that had poured out of the cut. Satoru inhaled sharply—it
stung, physically and mentally, and he couldn’t resist the small uncomfortable
groan that rose from his lips. The arachnid pulled back only slightly with
another low chuckle, licking his lips. “Delicious.”
That can’t be good.
The monster blinked for a moment, before giving a short, biting laugh. “No, I
suppose for you, it isn’t.”
He cursed internally. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but the creature at
least looked—amused? A hand snaked its way under his shirt, tracing out the
curves and edges of his heaving chest; Satoru tried to arch away from it, his
body twisting against the threads that were keeping him firmly in place.
Another entertained laugh met his ears, and when his face was forced forwards
again, Satoru at least had the foresight to glare at the monster above him.
It stared back down at him for a moment with an inscrutable expression, its
eight unnatural legs settling around Satoru like a cage. For a long moment,
they just looked at each other, before the grip on his jaw suddenly and
painfully tightened. Satoru couldn’t stop the small gasp that slipped past his
lips, nor could he escape the tongue he felt suddenly thrusting into his mouth.
Instantly he was coughing, gagging against the taste of his own blood—he tried
to turn his head away, but the hand wouldn’t let him. He tried to yell into the
kiss, to scream,but it only came out as muted, muffled and desperate noises
against the thing’s lips. Eventually it pulled back, but only enough to drag
its tongue against his cheek again, and Satoru panted as he snapped: “S-stop—!”
But his words didn’t stop that abnormally strong grip from forcing his head up,
revealing his exposed throat. Satoru tried to twist himself free again, spurred
on by the feeling of the spider’s fangs against his veins.
“Shh,” the voice whispered, his lips moving against Satoru’s skin. Its tone
was—almost affectionate,and if he didn’t know better, he’d think the spider was
trying to comfort him. “I promise, it will only hurt for a moment.”
Then something sharp plunged into the crook of his neck, and he screamed, the
world flashing white. To his credit, the monster was right—it was only seconds
until the toxin took effect, and Satoru was helpless to do anything but gasp
against the pain as everything went dark.
 
***** KenSato, soulmate AU *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt on tumblr located here.
Kenya’s scar runs deep; he knows that for a fact.
Outwardly, the mangled line on his left hand looks the same as everyone else’s.
A ragged criss-cross that cut across his palm, just a shade or two darker than
his skin. It cut an almost direct stroke from his thumb to his little finger,
thick and wide. And like everyone else, when Kenya curled his fist and
listened, he could hear his soulmate’s voice echoing in his ears. It was a
sound more familiar than his mother’s face, a phrase he knew better than his
own name. It had been with him since he was born and would be with him until he
died; that single line uttered breathlessly, elated and laughing.
Everyone needs a hero sometimes, right?
Those few words told him so much. In them, Kenya heard so much optimism, so
much warmth. He could feel in that tone a sense of duty, an intense desire
comfort and intervene. The sound echoed through his bones, engulfing his
veins—it was like a warm thrum in his blood, and he clutched the feeling close.
But more than anything, it set a fire in Kenya: it made him want to be better.
To be one of the heroes his fated someone believed the world needed, even if
only for him.
In other words, long before Kenya Kobayashi ever met his soulmate, he fell
completely and hopelessly in love.
 
 
He was eleven the first time he took those words to heart.
It was one of those horribly dry, cold days that was familiar to anyone who
lived in Ishikari. Kenya had turned up his collar against the biting wind, and
with firm determined steps, decided to cut through the park. He wanted to get
home as soon as possible, to the comfort of a kotatsu and some hot chocolate.
He was half-way there when he heard a thud and a cry, the tell-tale sound of
someone harshly hitting the snow.
He turned and quickly found the source of the noise: two teenagers, hovering
above—was that a girl? She couldn’t have been older than Kenya, and she held a
hand to her cheek, the contents of her bookbag spilled across the ground. One
of the boys was shouting something, but it was drowned out by the voice coming
from Kenya’s clenched hand.
Everyone needs a hero sometimes, right?
He took one, long deep breath—and ran up to the three of them, he voice loud as
he shouted. “Hey! Stop!”
It didn’t end very heroically. Kenya pushed himself up off the ground, wiping
at the blood coming from his nose. Some of those blows would surely bruise, but
at least his conscience was clear. He looked back to the girl, who was
sniffling as she gathered her things into her bag. He reached down to help her
gather her books, his jaw still sore from a well-placed punch. “Are you
alright?”
“Y-yeah.” The girl turned to him, and—Kenya blinked. Looking at her up close,
it suddenly become clear that said girl was very much a boy. In his defense, it
was a very easy mistake to make. When he spoke, even his voice was soft and
high, the very definition of feminine. “Thanks. I’m—I’m sorry, you got hurt.”
“That’s not your fault. It’s theirs.” He held out a gloved hand to the other
child, helping to hoist him to his feet. “My name’s Kenya, by the way.”
“I’m Hiromi,” he muttered back, a smile spreading across his round features.
“It’s—it’s nice to meet you, Kenya.”
 
 
They were in their first year of high school before they ever talked about
their soulmates. They sat side-by-side on the rooftop of their new school,
eating lunch and watching their fellow students mingle below. Kenya scanned the
crowd; a part of him had naively hoped that he’d meet the owner of that voice
here, in this new place filled with new people. No such luck. The blond sighed,
running the fingers of his right hand over the scar on his left. He traced the
familiar edges, feeling rough outline ingrained into his skin. 
Hiromi sipped the last of his drink, turning to his friend. “Hey, Kenya?”
“Mm?”
“You do that a lot,” Hiromi pointed out, motioning to Kenya’s hands. “Are you…
are you that excited to meet them?”
A small smile twitched onto his face. Excited didn’t quite begin to cover it.
“Yeah,” he replied, flexing his fingers. For a brief moment, he gripped his
hand, losing himself to that comforting voice in his head. He looked back over
to his friend, one eyebrow raised. “Aren’t you?”
Hiromi shook his head with a nervous smile. “Not really. She, uh—” he muttered,
scratching his cheek. “She sounds a bit. Uhm. Mean.”
Kenya raised his eyebrows at that. Of course, he’d heard that people don’t
always get off on the right foot with their soulmates—some of them were rude,
or downright cruel. The truly unfortunate heard horrible things every time they
closed their hand: the sound of a robbery, a rape, a murder. He couldn’t
imagine waiting all of these years, only to meet your fated other on the other
end of a gun. Kenya knew that, in that respect, he was extremely fortunate: his
other half’s words were warm and inspiring, not to mention distinctive.
Still, he couldn’t imagine anyone being cruel to Hiromi, of all people. He was
the least offensive person Kenya had ever met.  It was extremely rude to ask,
but he couldn’t help the inquisitive niggling he felt in the back of his head.
“Is it that bad?”
His round-faced friend shrugged with a small smile. “She asks me if I’m an
idiot,” he said quietly, closing his hand. “What about yours?”
Kenya entwined his fingers, protectively hiding his scar with his other palm.
“He tells me that everyone needs a hero.”
The freshman gave a low hum. “He sounds cool,” Hiromi said quietly. There was a
brief moment of silence, before he suddenly started, whirling to face the blond
with his mouth agape. “Wait, is that why you want to be a lawyer?”
He gave a short nod and could feel a bit of heat rising to his face. He turned
his head to look up at the clouds, his shoulders leaning back against the
fence. “It inspired me, I guess.”
“Wow,” Hiromi muttered, crouching down to sit. “That’s—that’s amazing, Kenya.”
He couldn’t help but agree.
 
 
They were seventeen when their daily commute turned into a warzone.
At least, it felt that way to Kenya—he’d barely processed the screech of
rubber, the shredding of metal, the breaking of glass until it was all over.
Later, he’d learn that the driver had a heart attack at the wheel; but right
now, all he could fathom was that there was an SUV embedded in the windows of
his favourite café. Kenya and Hiromi had followed the screams and the scent of
gasoline, rounding the corner and arriving at the scene seconds after the car
crashed to a stop.
For a moment, neither of them moved; then a girl on the ground in front of them
groaned, and suddenly, everything was moving very fast. Hiromi got to her
first, pulling off his blazer and gently slipping it under her head, his eyes
wide and face pale. “You’re going to be fine,” he promised, his voice shaking
in his throat. “Just hang on for me, okay?”
Two brown eyes cracked blearily open. She stared up at him through the blood,
before her lips twitched up to a smile. “Are you… an idiot?”
It was there, in the middle of the screaming and the gore, that Hiromi Sugita
met Kayo Hinazuki.
 
 
College came and went without a sign from his soulmate, and Kenya would be
lying if that didn’t cause a pang in his heart. He’d traded Ishikari for Tokyo,
a much bigger city with many more possibilities; the metropolis was bursting
with over 13 million people, but he’d yet to hear the voice that echoed from
his hand. He found a job with the local legal aid association, offering his
services to those who had nowhere else to turn. It wasn’t always glamorous, and
his clients weren’t always innocent. More than anything, it was hard. Kenya
spent many nights alone, emotionally exhausted in bed and staring up at the
ceiling, clenching his fist.
Everyone needs a hero sometimes, right?
“Right,” he whispered to himself, and he brushed his lips against the scar.
Those in need of legal aid usually had the cards stacked against them from the
start, so when Kenya won his first case, it was an occasion worth celebrating.
Hiromi was in town for a medical conference, so they met at a small izakaya,
tucked into the tiny side-streets of Shinjuku. Kenya had to admit that it was
good to see his friend again—just seeing a familiar face in the city put his
mind at ease, and he let himself enjoy the good food and beer, putting his
missing soulmate out of his head.
They stumbled back out onto the streets, later than either of them had
anticipated. It was a good night, the best Kenya had had in a while; so it
shouldn’t have come as a surprise when someone decided to ruin it, stalking up
to them and demanding all the money they had. Kenya stared at the man’s sweat-
soaked face, then the knife in his hand; his grip was shaking. Either this was
his first time mugging someone, or there was something other than alcohol in
his veins. Neither of which was a good sign.
He didn’t even get a chance to think about reaching for his wallet before
someone tackled the mugger to the ground.
The two strangers went down in a tangle of limbs, and Kenya felt Hiromi
grabbing his blazer and pulling him back. But then Kenya heard the knife
clatter to the ground, and he surged forward to kick it away from the
criminal’s hand. He turned back to the wrestling men just in time to see the
mugger land a painfully accurate punch to the other’s man’s face. The stranger
fell back with a startled cry, and the would-be thief scrambled to his feet and
took off down a nearby alley.
Kenya ran to give chase, but as he stared down the lane, he realized the thief
was already long gone. For a moment, he just stood there panting, before
Hiromi’s voice cut through his adrenaline.
“Hold still,” the doctor commanded, and Kenya looked back to see him inspecting
the man’s upper arm. For the first time, he got a good look at the person who’d
jumped in to intervene; his black hair was in disarray, his glasses cracked in
his frames. As the lawyer stepped back towards them, he realized that the
mugger had managed to land more than just a punch: there was a clean tear in
the man’s shirt, deep red spreading across his shoulder from a shallow wound.
“You’re going to need stitches,” Hiromi told him, pressing a handkerchief to
the cut. “And that was really stupid, by the way.”
The man gave a short, breathless laugh. “Everyone needs a hero sometimes,
right?”
And Kenya’s world hurtled to a halt. He was vaguely aware that Hiromi’s eyes
had widened too, but that wasn’t that mattered now—he stared at this stranger,
his soulmate, drowning himself in every detail. His tired but warm smile. The
way his dark hair fell around his face. The brilliant, deep blue of his eyes.
He was—he was absolutely perfect, and Kenya could feel something hot and wet
welling in his eyes. His fingers twitched, desperate to reach out and touch
this person, to confirm that he really existed—that he was here, he was
real,sitting in front of him now.
“Uh,” the man said, looking between the two of them. “Is something wrong?”
Say something. Kenya opened his mouth, but nothing came. Not everybody got a
chance to pick what they said to their soulmate, and he had to make sure he
made it count. This person had to live with these next words for his entire
life. He had already lived with them for years, even though the syllables had
never left Kenya’s lips. But where did he even start? How could he convey to
this person that he was the catalyst for everything Kenya had decided to
become, that he’d already spent twenty-six years loving him? Missinghim, like a
hole in his very being? The scar on his left hand hummed and itched painfully
against his skin, and he pressed his fingers against it, clutching it like a
lifeline.
He didn’t know what to say, so he just told him the truth.
“You’re already a hero to me.”
 
***** YashiSato, oral fixation *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt located on tumblr here.
Obviously, living with Satoru had its benefits. Such as this very moment.
Yashiro didn’t know if he would call what they had “dating,” per say—he already
he knew his feelings went far beyond simple infatuation, and he couldn’t compel
himself to think of Satoru as a “boyfriend.” It seemed far too mundane, too
simplistic for whatever this was. If he was forced to put a label on it, he
supposed “lover” would do—though “soulmate” had a certain ring to it as well.
Regardless, it was inconsequential: all that mattered is that Satoru agreed to
be his, and his alone.
To the point where he even began to live in Yashiro’s apartment. He found
himself devouring all the little details that only co-habitation could uncover,
pushing boundaries that previously weren’t there to be pushed. He especially
loved adorable sluggishness that defined Satoru’s morning routine, and he found
he never got bored of teasing the bedraggled artist as he shuffled around the
apartment with half-awake eyes, a toothbrush hanging uselessly from his mouth.
But this. This was a cut above.
Satoru didn’t often bring work home, but a tight deadline combined with a sick
assistant had recently made it a necessity. Yashiro settled at the other side
of the kitchen table from the flustered mangaka, perfectly content to silently
relish in his company with a cup of coffee and a newspaper.
But then he noticed a little pink tongue, darting out between his lover’s lips.
And now he couldn’t stop staring. Now that he thought about it, he’d never
actually seen Satoru at work, and the effect was—hypnotizing. His Spice was
completely focused on the task at hand, his teeth unconsciously chewing at his
lower lip, rolling it gently under the bite. His mouth would contort tightly
whenever he encountered the slightest difficulty, usually followed by the sound
of an eraser being dragged along the page. More than once that tantalizing
tongue reappeared, sticking out in concentration or licking at his lips,
leaving a wet shine in its wake.
If it was just that, Yashiro might have been able to control himself. But
Satoru had this infuriating habit of holding his marker pens in his mouth,
keeping his lips temptingly parted. As he worked Yashiro could hear his breath,
coming out in stressed little pants. Every once in a while he pressed his
tongue to the halves in his mouth, and the pens would swivel in kind. At least
once Yashiro spied a small drop of saliva, running down the plastic, and he had
to swallow down the low groan that tried to escape his throat.
He didn’t know why, but Satoru’s mouth had always had this effect on him. For
years he replayed the night he gave Satoru and his mother a ride; the risk had
been worth it, if only to watch the boy’s lips move around the candy in the
passenger seat. In the years that followed, he’d more than once reached sweet
release imagining that little mouth being put to better use. Yashiro wanted to
own it, to claim that moist, wet cavern all for himself. He wanted to be the
only thing Satoru could taste, be the only one to hear the lewd sounds that
throat could make. Watching him now, that same instinct re-emerged in force.
Clearly, some urges never completely went away.
Yashiro didn’t realize he was standing until Satoru blinked up at him, his lips
moving around the instruments in his mouth. “Something wrong?”
The older man reached down to run his fingers softly through that mess of
pitch-black hair, before slowly curling his hand into a fist, gripping firmly.
He pulled the mangaka’s head back, an action that earned him a small, surprised
gasp of pain, as his other hand went to pluck the pens from their perch between
Satoru’s lips. As he pulled them away, a long, thin tendril of saliva followed,
and Yashiro gave a shaky, thick sigh. “Are you so desperate to occupy your
mouth?” he asked, his voice low as his thumb trailed across Satoru’s lower lip.
The younger man frowned up at him, his pencil tapping against the table
impatiently. “What?”
The only answer he got was three fingers, plunged into his mouth. Spice’s eyes
widened for a moment behind his glasses before he tried to pull away,
sputtering and coughing against the politician’s knuckles. One of his pale
hands flew up to grasp his lover’s wrist, trying to push the offending fingers
out as he leaned back in his seat. “Y-Yashiro—!”
But he only held that head firmly in place, letting his hand eagerly explore
the crevices of Satoru’s mouth. His digits traveled along his victim’s teeth,
pushing against the canines. He dared to dive further, tangling with his
tongue, playfully tugging at it and teasing underneath. Yashiro could feel
thick saliva coating his fingers, some of it slipping out of Satoru’s open
mouth and down his chin. He spared a look at Spice’s face: cheeks flushing red,
embarrassed and glaring with narrowed eyes.
His words were muffled and distorted by the hand in his mouth, but Yashiro
still gleamed the meaning. Satoru wanted to get back to work, and he opted to
selectively ignore the little protest as he began to thrust his fingers in and
out between his other half’s lips. Spice gave a short gag and tried to turn his
head away, but Yashiro forced him back, pulling his jaw in to meet every
thrust. He could vaguely feel Satoru’s teeth grazing his knuckles warningly,
but both of them knew better. He wasn’t going to bite.
But Yashiro could also feel his patience wearing thin; after a minute or so
more of his ministrations, he slowly removed the hand, running the wet fingers
along Spice’s cheek. The mangaka gave a short cough, tugging a little at the
grip still in his hair. He turned his eyes back to his partner, bringing up his
arm to wipe at some of the moisture on his chin. “What’s gotten into you?”
He gave an arrogant smile back down at him, one eyebrow raised. “How can you
expect me to resist,” he asked, dragging his wet hand across those lips again,
“when you’re provoking me like that?”
To his credit, Spice looked legitimately and completely confused. He opened his
mouth to protest, but paused when Yashiro began to unzip his pants. His former
student sighed in resignation and mild annoyance, and didn’t resist when
Yashiro pushed his cock into his mouth. The older man groaned loudly, tightly
twisting both hands into the thick strands of black hair. He spared Satoru no
recompense, shoving in as far as he could with reckless abandon. He could hear
Spice grunt with every thrust, his head held firmly in place by the unrelenting
grip. Two ink-stained hands curled into the fabric of Yashiro’s pants, able to
do little more than hold on as his mouth was fucked.
He leaned forward, his body relishing in the feeling of Satoru’s mouth, his
lips, his tongue dragging underneath his shaft. It was just so tight, so wet,
so warm—and it was his, all of it. This feeling was reserved for him and him
alone; he wouldn’t let anyone else have it, wouldn’t let them even dare to
imagine it. He’d destroy any man who so much as dreamed of taking Satoru away
from him, even for a moment. Something dark and carnal bubbled up from inside
him, its voice echoing with every thrust.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
At any other time, he would be ashamed of how short he lasted, but this was
extenuating circumstances. Yashiro suddenly pulled out of Satoru’s mouth,
pressing the underside of his cock against those wet and red lips. He forced
himself not to grind against the feeling, and his voice came out as a lust-
filled command. “Open.”
Satoru obediently obliged, parting his lips. Yashiro removed one of his hands
from the younger man’s hair, and gave himself two tight, final strokes, before
the orgasm overcame his body. He couldn’t remember the last time he came so
hard, every muscle shuddering as he finished against Spice’s open mouth. He
watched as the thick white settled on his lover’s lips, his jaw, on his tongue.
Yashiro gave himself a few more parting touches to make sure he was finished,
before finally letting his hand drop from between his legs. Satoru gave a short
cough, bringing up a hand to wipe at some of the cum covering the lower half of
his face.
Yashiro gave a short laugh, reaching down to smear some of his semen against
Satoru’s lips. “How was it, Spice?”
Two blue eyes turned up to stare at him. For a brief second, he thought Satoru
might actually be upset—but then he saw that mischievous glint in his gaze,
followed by a small smile gracing his abused lips. “I expect you to return the
favour,” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes half-closing. “Sensei.”
(In the end, Satoru got almost no work done that day.)
 
***** YashiSato, sugar daddy AU *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt on tumblr located here.
Satoru was young, but he wasn’t stupid. This was dangerous.
He slid his hands into the pockets of his blazer, scowling at the climbing
numbers above the elevator door. He hated when he had to meet him right after
class: it gave him no time to change out of his uniform. His school’s emblem on
his blazer felt like a beacon, declaring to everyone who he was, where he
studied, how old he really was. Luckily, nobody around seemed to be questioning
what a high school student was doing at a politician’s office on a Friday
evening. He didn’t know what he’d tell them if they did, and a blend of fear
and shame curdled in his stomach at the thought.
You should just end it.Of course, he’d considered cutting thisoff a thousand
times. He had even planned what he would say, had prepared a counter-point to
every possible argument. But all of that died on his tongue the moment the
money appeared in his university savings account every week. Satoru had applied
to the Tokyo University of Art practically on a whim, mostly because Kenya
insisted he should. He never expected they’d actually takehim. When the
acceptance came in the mail, his mother—beaming and proud—insisted she’d find a
way to pay the tuition.
Satoru knew better. The fees just to attend were insane, without even the cost
that would come with living in residence. There was no way his mother, on her
single-income, would have a chance in hell of paying it off. Not without
landing herself in debt for the rest of her life.
As he stepped out onto the thirteen floor, he told himself it would be worth
it. All the money he’d earned doing—this—he’d kept aside, the numbers ticking
up with every one of these meetings. There would be plenty by the time he
graduated in April. After that, he’d be in Tokyo, far away from Ishikari, his
tuition and costs for the next four years taken care of. His mother would owe
nothing to anyone, he’d get the education he’d been dreaming of, and—
And he’d never have to see Nishizono Manabu again.
That thought kept him going as he moved down the hallway, past the empty
reception and closed doors. The office was eerily quiet, and Satoru shrugged
his bookbag over his shoulder as he went. The carpeted floors ate the sound of
his footsteps, so his only company was the distant buzzing of an air
conditioner. His path was only half-lit by whatever lights someone had
haphazardly decided to leave on. He supposed he should be thankful that
Nishizono had sent everyone else home for the day, but it also put his nerves
on edge. For better or for worse, they wouldn’t be interrupted.
He stopped in front of the large, wooden door at the end of the hall. The
plaque read the older man’s name, and Satoru took a moment to steady himself
with a deep breath. Then he wrapped his fingers around the cold metal, slowly
turning the handle, and stepped inside.
His eyes instantly found the older man, reclining in his chair behind a
polished oak desk. Nishizono set down whatever document he was reading with one
hand and removed his glasses with the other, smiling at the teenager now
hovering in his doorway. He was immaculately dressed, as always, in one of
those dark suits he was so fond of—but today his normally combed-back hair was
loose, falling in front of his eyes. He only wore it that way when they were
alone.
Nishizono reached up to loosen his tie. “Good evening, Satoru.”
Satoru frowned at him and tightened his grip on the doorknob. Dangerous.
It had taken a few meetings, but he’d caught on quickly. Nishizono Manabu was
dangerous. Not because he was an influential politician, slowly climbing the
ranks of the ruling national party. Not because he was richer than god, the
lucky inheritor of another family’s fortune. Not because he decided to spend
that money luring desperate teenagers—or, one desperate teenager, as the case
may be—into his waiting hands.
No, it was—something else. Satoru isn’t even sure he could describe it, but
under the kind words and expensive presents, there was something there.It had
something to do with the way Nishizono looked at him when he thought Satoru
wasn’t looking. The way people tended to either bend or break when his voice
filled the room. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, what that
thing under the surface of Nishizono’s smiles wanted from him. But that word
echoed in his head like an alarm bell, like it did every time they met.
Dangerous. Dangerous. Dangerous.
“Did you have any trouble getting here?” he asked, tucking his reading glasses
into the chest pocket of his suit.
Satoru finally stepped inside, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him
with a quiet thunk. “No.” He stopped on the other side of the desk, thankful
for the thick wood that sat between them. He stared down at the politician, and
tilted his head a little to the side, feeling his bangs brush against his own
frames. “Is it a good idea, having me come here?”
Nishizono’s smile spread wider and his eyes dropped a little, the corners
crinkling in amusement. “No one will disturb us,” he replied, which didn’t
actually answer Satoru’s question at all. With a motion of his hand, he
beckoned the boy closer; Satoru dropped his bag where he stood and circled the
desk. The man reached for him, and Satoru shivered when he felt that rough palm
meet the skin on his wrist, inviting him closer. Nishizono’s fingers curled
around his belt, pulling Satoru’s hips down, and his legs moved automatically
to straddle the politician in his seat.
“How was school?” he asked, reaching up to cup the teenager’s face, his thumb
gently stroking along his cheekbone.
Satoru raised an eyebrow, not leaning into or away from the caress. “Are you
actually asking?”
A low chuckle reverberated from beneath him. “Not particularly,” he admitted,
whispering the words into the side of his consort’s throat. Satoru closed his
eyes as Nishizono gave a slow, deep inhale against his skin, his hot breath
beating against his jaw. “You’ve been using the aftershave I bought you.”
Satoru shuddered, his hands falling onto the politician’s broad shoulders. Of
course, he’d hoped he would notice. That was the point. Beyond the fake
intimacy, beyond the money changing hands, he could tell there was a game being
played here; he’d didn’t intend to lose. He let out a soft, victorious breath
as he felt an arm wind around his waist, heard the moan that escaped the older
man as he inhaled the scent again. I can be dangerous, too.
A low hum echoed against his neck, the tone deep but amused. “Do you want to be
dangerous, Satoru?”
Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I—”
He was interrupted by lips, rough and demanding against his own. Unresistingly,
he opened his mouth for Nishizono’s tongue, feeling fingers tangling into his
hair. The kiss was like its creator: greedy and brutal, taking everything
without giving an inch. The older man pulled Satoru’s hips closer again, until
he could feel the pressure between the other man’s legs brushing against his
own. Despite himself, he made a small noise of wanting, muffled and barely
heard through the kiss. Satoru curled his fingers into fists in the other man’s
suit and let him take his fill, steadily stealing the breath from his lungs.
Eventually, Nishizono pulled back, barely—and only long enough for him to get
to his feet, carrying the teenager with him. Satoru opened his mouth to ask
just what the older man thought he was doing, but then his back met the hard
wood of the desk. His patron was hovering above him, propped up by one hand on
either side of Satoru’s head and staring down appraisingly. His lips twitched
upwards into a mocking smile, one eyebrow raised as he descended back down to
speak against his hired lover’s lips. “Children shouldn’t be playing dangerous
games.”
Satoru stared up at him for a moment, the question coming out with a pant for
air. “Because I’ll win?”
Something flashed across the older man’s expression, and then his fingers were
on Satoru’s belt, roughly pulling apart the buckle. “Because you’ll lose.”
He felt his pants and underwear fall together, and he couldn’t resist the flush
of red he knew was pooling in his face. It was always embarrassing, not in
small part because of the way Nishizono insisted on staring. The politician ran
an appreciative hand along his hip, before brushing his fingertips along the
teenager’s erection. Satoru bit his lip and tried to swallow his moan, but
couldn’t resist the way his hips rocked into the touch.
“Still so sensitive,” the man commented, his palms working up and down Satoru’s
thighs. He expected Nishizono to continue playing—he seemed to take a perverse
delight in bringing Satoru to the very edge, before pulling back; like he
wanted to watch the boy come undone beneath his touches. But today he only
grabbed hold of Satoru’s hips, and flipped him onto his front.
Satoru gave a small grunt, his cheek meeting the cool surface of the desk. He
moved to push himself up onto his elbows, but then he felt the weight of
Nishizono’s entire forearm against his shoulderblades, pushing him back down.
From his place pinned against wood, he could see the man’s free hand pull a
drawer open, pulling out a familiar small, clear tube.
Against his better judgement, Satoru’s body tensed. They’d only done—itonly a
couple of times; before that it had all been with their hands and their mouths.
The first time, he’d even cried from the pain, burying his face in Nishizono’s
shoulder as the man plunged into him ruthlessly in the back seat of his car. He
wouldn’t say the man had been cruel, but he hadn’t been gentle, either; Satoru
was sore for days after that ‘date.’
And now, that same stand-up, well-respected politician clearly had brought lube
to work with every intent of fucking a teenaged boy in his office. Satoru bit
his lip, and that voice in his head again told him to leave, even as the cold
gel was being spread between his legs. He pressed his forehead against the
desk, squeezing his eyes shut. “Nishizo—ah!”
Satoru jerked as the first finger pressed inside, and the older man pressed
more weight against his back, holding him securely down. “Stay still, Satoru,”
he crooned, his finger working in and out of the boy’s backside. He could feel
his legs squirming, his body still unsure of how to deal with the unfamiliar
feeling. He panted against the polished wood, unable to resist a moan of
discomfort as a second digit joined.
“Good,” the man praised, and Satoru turned his head to glare over his shoulder.
Nishizono had a satisfied grin spread across his face, and he caught Satoru’s
gaze just as he pressed a third inside. The reaction must have become clear on
his face, because the older man gave a short laugh, continuing to thrust his
hand in and out of him. “You’ve started to relax much more easily,” he noted,
his fingers curling in a way that made Satoru’s hips buck. “Could it be you’re
getting used to this?”
He shot him another pointed glare, his voice coming out much weaker and more
exhausted than he had hoped it would. “Y-you’re disgusting.”
That smile didn’t falter—if anything, the man looked even more amused. “Such
insolence,” he replied, finally withdrawing his fingers. Satoru tried again to
shift position, but that arm was still there, keeping him securely held down.
He could do nothing but close his eyes as he heard Nishizono’s zipper come
undone. Then he felt something—hot and hard—rubbing against his slick backside.
Satoru reached up and curled his hands around the opposite edge of the desk for
support, gripping tightly as he felt something push its way inside.
The forearm disappeared, but it was quickly replaced by the combined weight of
Nishizono’s torso, pressing against his back. Satoru held onto the desk for
dear life, feeling as the older man began to thrust, his lower voice grunting
and moaning into Satoru’s hair. He felt two rough hands—one wet, one
not—tightly grip at his waist, holding him steady. The teenager panted against
his own volition, and couldn’t help but feel a bit of shame as that ache begin
to melt into something warmer, more—pleasurable.
“Satoru,” Nishizono whispered again, his lips finding the arch of Satoru’s ear,
nipping and tasting. But then that voice was back, its tone surprisingly
unchanging, even as he continued to fuck Satoru against the desk. “I was
promoted to work in the Federal Cabinet today.”
We’re really talking about this now?Satoru grit his teeth; he would have said
something about the politician’s timing, if he was still capable of coherent
speech. As it was, he was losing the ability to think, his mind melting as the
ecstasy pooled between his legs. For a moment, the world flashed white, and he
couldn’t resist arching back and against the politician that was keeping him
pinned down. The man gave a chuckle at the reaction, before thrusting forward
to hit that place again as he continued: “I will be leaving Ishikari. For
Tokyo.”
And Satoru’s head snapped up, and he stared ahead at nothing, wide-eyed. “T-
Tokyo—?”
“Yes,” the voice crooned in his ear. “Just like you.”
Nishizono’s previously dry hand wound its way up to Satoru’s jaw, before
pushing his fingers into the teenager’s open mouth. Satoru gave a low groan,
unable to resist when he could feel his lover picking up the pace, thrusting
into him with more strength and desperation. “When you go for university,” he
grunted, his voice low and quiet in Satoru’s ear. “You’ll live with me.”
It wasn’t a question. Satoru squeezed his eyes shut, speaking around the hand
in his mouth. “If I—refuse?”
The hand that was tangling with his tongue retreated, the palm pressing over
Satoru’s mouth, muffling his moans and cutting off any retort. Nishizono
pressed down against the teenager, and repeated, firmly and almost
threateningly: “You’ll live with me.”
Dangerous,his mind offered again, but Satoru wasn’t listening: the feeling that
had been building underneath his skin had finally reached its limit. He was a
little thankful for the hand on his mouth, if only because he helped to drown
out the short shout that tore itself from his throat. His whole body tightened
and twitched as he came, his knuckles white as they continued to grip the edge
of the desk. The hand unwound itself from his lips, and Satoru gratefully
gulped down air. He could feel Nishizono give a few more thrusts inside, almost
painfully deep, before he buried himself in Satoru with a low groan of his own
as he finished.
Satoru lay limply against the desk for a long moment, a bit of saliva trickling
onto the wood. Too late, he realized Nishizono hadn’t even deigned to wear a
condom this time. The politician didn’t move either, remaining both inside and
on top of the teenager, one hand winding affectionately around his waist from
behind in silence.
Tokyo.That was where he was supposed to go to escape all this—to finally be
free of Nishizono, to be able to focus whole-heartedly on his dream of making
manga. He should have known the man wasn’t going to let him go so easily: he
could see it sometimes, the way Nishizono looked at Satoru like he was his
entire world. Once or twice, Satoru even entertained the thought that the
politician had actually fallen in love with him. He didn’t know for sure if
what the older man felt was love, or if whatever it was was even real. Frankly,
he didn’t know a lot at all where Nishizono was concerned.
But Satoru was starting to get the distinct feeling that he was tangled in a
web, and no amount of excuses was going to get him out of it. That alarm was
still there, blaring loud and clear from his conscience: dangerous, dangerous,
dangerous.Any sane person would listen to it, would have steered clear of
Nishizono long ago.
Clearly, Satoru was not a sane person. He looked over his shoulder, meeting the
man’s black eyes. “I want my own room.”
And Nishizono grinned, leaning forward to press a kiss to Satoru’s temple. “As
you wish.”
 
***** Yashisato, second killer AU *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt can be found on tumblr here.
Well, this wasn’t right.
Yashiro turned his head to the left, then the right, turning the lollipop over
in his mouth. No matter which way he looked at it, this was wrong. He should be
here. The boy had followed Misato to the hockey rink, seemingly with every
intent of thwarting another kidnapping, just like Yashiro had hoped he would.
If everything went according to plan, he would follow her to the bathrooms when
the laxatives kicked in, trailing after her just like he trailed Nakanishi Aya.
Then Yashiro would be there, offering a warm smile, a seat in his car, and a
fitting end to the short life known as Fujinuma Satoru.
It should have been perfect. It wasperfect.
Yet here he was, standing outside the bathrooms. Alone.
Yashiro frowned, letting the emergency door swing closed behind him with a
solid thunk. No matter which way he looked at it, something had gone horribly
awry.
He took a moment and considered his options. Could Misato have already left?
No, he’d been careful with the dosage—she shouldn’t be able to leave the
bathroom for at least half an hour, if not more. Nor did he imagine Satoru
would simply leave her behind, not if he truly suspected her life was in
danger. He’d faced far worse challenges when he befriended Hinazuki Kayo.
Yashiro quickly discounted the idea that Satoru knew it was a trap—this was an
eleven-year-old boy, not a master strategist. Frankly, he didn’t think Satoru
suspected him at all.
He snapped the candy between his teeth, grinding the stick. First things first,
he had to find Satoru.
A feat which proved easier than anticipated. Yashiro had barely taken two steps
before he heard something.It caused him to stop mid-step, his eyes narrowed and
staring ahead as he parsed the noise:  it was quiet, but it was there—a
shuffling sound, a muffled whine, the hiss of a lower voice. He could feel his
eyebrow twitch, his jaw clenching against the cardboard stick still poking out
between his lips. Then he turned in the direction of the sound, staring into
the entrance to the boy’s bathroom.
Luckily, he learnt along ago how to tread silently. Yashiro moved slowly, his
gloved hand trailing along the tile divider that separated the hallway from the
stalls. The closer he got, the louder the sounds became, but that wasn’t what
he was focusing on. No, his attention was on the smell in the air: that vaguely
sweet, chemical scent that he knew all too well.
He rounded the corner, and instantly found its source.
The man didn’t see or hear Yashiro arrive, and he took advantage to assess the
situation. Slightly long hair in disarray, wrinkled and dirty clothes, a
surgical mask concealing his face: he was practically the caricature of a
dangerous stranger, and if it were any situation, Yashiro might have laughed.
It was so—comically cliché. He felt his lips twitch upwards in a smug smile—but
then he saw two little legs, kicking on either side of the man’s waist. And any
clever comment died on Yashiro’s tongue.
“Stop squirming,” the man panted, arching over the smaller body beneath him. A
short, strangled noise met Yashiro’s ears, before it was quickly smothered into
silence. “There, there—you’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
Yashiro began his approach, his fingers instinctually finding the utility knife
in his coat pocket. As he edged closer, he could finally see. There was Satoru:
his body pinned down, small hands uselessly clawing at the hand around his
throat, voice muffled by the chemically soaked rag pressed against his nose and
mouth. He was fighting, thrashing his limbs and arching his back, but it was a
losing battle—no one was immune to chloroform, let alone a child. His eyes were
already unfocused and struggling to remain open, his fingers fighting not to go
limp against his attacker’s wrist.
Yashiro tightened his grip on his weapon, and saw red.
Of all the things Yashiro had considered, someone else stealing his prey from
him wasn’t one of them. He could feel a cold, sharp fury crackling through his
veins. He’d painstaking planned every detail, had meticulously set his trap—and
then this idiot ruinedall of it. If he’d been intelligent about it, Yashiro
might have even been a little impressed—but this was sloppy, unpractised,
foolish. It made him sick just to see it. The boy had managed to thwart Yashiro
at every turn: such a life deserved a more fitting end than being kidnapped and
killed by some simple pedophile.
It deserved the death Yashiro had laid out for him. The one this man smashed to
pieces just to satisfy his disgusting urges.
He pulled the knife out of his pocket.
As he slipped behind the assailant, Yashiro’s black eyes briefly met Satoru’s
unfocused blue. He could see a flicker of recognition in those rapidly closing
eyes, and he pressed one finger to his lips, offering his student a soft,
encouraging smile. Then he moved a little closer—just a little closer.
“Good,” the man whispered, watching intently as the fight bled out of Satoru’s
limbs. “That’s good.”
But not as good as it felt to press the blade against the attacker’s jugular
vein.
“Excuse me,” Yashiro whispered softly, a teacherly smile still spread across
his face. He pressed the sharp edge against the skin, watching as it gave way
to that deep, red crimson. “I believe that is my student you are assaulting.”
Oh, that terrified noise was so satisfying—not as satisfying as it would be to
slit his throat, of course, but right now Yashiro would revel in it. The man
was shaking now—pathetic, pathetic!—and he slowly released his grip on the
immobile child beneath him, his hands held up in surrender. “I—please—”
Begging, really?Yashiro narrowed his eyes, the warm expression falling from his
face. To rid the world of this creature would be a benefit to society, not that
he had any interest in that. But even with Satoru’s testimony, he wasn’t sure
he could hand-wave the bloodstains away as self-defense. More importantly, he
had a repulsive, pedophilic recluse, right here in Ishikari: such a scapegoat
was much more useful alive than dead.
“Leave,” he stated, letting the ice drip from every word, digging the blade a
little deeper. “Now.”
The man nodded vigorously, the sweat pouring down his neck. Yashiro slipped his
fingers under the back of the man’s collar and pulled until he heard that
throat gurgle, tossing him to the floor. The assailant tumbled onto his back,
staring up at Yashiro with wide eyes before scampering away like the insect he
was. He slipped and stumbling as he ran out of the bathroom, leaving his rag
and his victim behind. Yashiro stood there for a long moment, waiting until the
sound of his footfalls were gone, before slipping the blood-soaked blade back
into the inner pocket of his coat.
“Sen… sei?”
Oh. He blinked for a moment, before turning his gaze back down to the boy. He
had assumed Satoru that he fallen asleep, but there he was: hovering somewhere
on the edge of consciousness, his limbs still sprawled where the attacker had
left them. Always the fighter—it reminded him of another small creature he once
knew. Yashiro slowly crouched down, every movement radiating false concern as
he slipped one arm under the boy’s shoulders and gently cradled his head.
“Are you alright, Satoru?”
Those unfocused eyes turned up to find him, struggling for a moment to focus.
When he finally spoke, his quiet voice was hoarse and his throat panting, still
struggling to regain lost air. “Mi… sato?”
Of course.This was better than anticipated—Satoru must have assumed the
kidnapper was here for her. It was a perfectly logical conclusion. Yashiro felt
the corners of his lips try to twitch into a grin, but he resisted, taking the
opportunity to brush stray strands of hair away from his student’s face. “She
is safe, I assure you.”
He nodded slowly, accepting the assurance for what it was. He head limply
lolled against Yashiro’s chest, until only a sliver of his eyes remained open,
staring blankly forwards. “I’m… tired…”
“That’s alright,” Yashiro replied, slipping one arm under Satoru’s knees. His
limbs had long given up the fight: they hung loosely, limply, and absolutely
unable to resist. The revelation sent a shiver of electricity up Yashiro’s
spine, and he pulled the defenseless boy closer, cradling that heat against his
chest.
Yashiro had planned to lock Satoru in his car, to throw him into the bottom of
the river—but here he was, so helpless and full of trust. So willing to believe
that Yashiro was here to help, to protecthim. This—this was so much better,more
satisfying than what he had planned. Of course, he would have loved to see the
look in the Satoru’s face when he realized exactly what Yashiro had in
store—but why end the game so soon? Especially when it suddenly got so
interesting?
This time, Yashiro couldn’t resist the wolfish grin spreading across his face,
so he didn’t. Satoru’s eyes had long since slipped closed, his breathing
evening out in drug-induced sleep. With the boy tightly held in his arms, he
made his way out of the bathroom. It would be a waste to kill him now, but he
would still bring his student down into his car all the same.
“Don’t worry, Satoru,” he whispered, his eyes falling to the boy’s face. “I
have you, now.”
***** Kensato, nightmare *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt located on tumblr here.
Everything was white.
The fog around him, the ice under his feet, even the breath out of his mouth:
all that Kenya could see were shades of pale grey. Tones of pale monochrome. He
blinked a couple of times, staring down at his small, youthful hands. The cold
in this place tickled at his skin, like the winters of his childhood. It was a
familiar chill, and it wasn’t entirely unwelcome.
It felt like—home.
“Kenya, come on!”
He looked up just in time to see the first of his friends rush past him, a blur
hurtling from behind into his field of vision. Kazu, always clumsy on skates,
was effectively running along the ice and struggling to regain his balance. Aya
followed swiftly after, moving with long, practiced strokes, an irritated but
vaguely amused smile on her lips as she overtook the blond.
Osamu went by next, passing Kenya with a short wave with one hand as he
readjusted his glasses with the other. Misato slipped by soon after, her feet
carrying her slowly, taking her time. She passed Kenya without even a glance,
her hands entwined behind her back, fingers nervously clutching each other.
“Kenya,” a soft voice called, and he watched as Hiromi slowed as he passed
Kenya by. “Don’t get left behind, okay?” he called, his hands cupping his
mouth. He couldn’t help but give a small smile at that, watching as one of his
best friends skated backwards and away.
Something moved out of the corner of his vision, and even before he properly
looked, he recognized the red coat that had stopped by his side. Kayo stood,
staring at the retreating silhouettes of the other children, her legs wobbling
and unsure in her skates.
The blond stared at her for a long moment, before giving her an encouraging
nod. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice sounding foreign even to his own ears.
“You can go.”
She looked at him for a heartbeat or two, opening her mouth to say something
before deciding against it. Her lips fell silently closed, and she gave a
nervous smile at her classmate, before pushing off. Her first stroke was messy
and she stumbled forward, but quickly caught herself. Before long, Kenya was
watching Kayo go, chasing confidently at Hiromi’s back.
That was everyone.
He should go.
Kenya bent his knees and moved to follow, when a voice at his back stopped him
dead.  It was distant, so far—but it echoed and bounced through the impossible
space, always eager and exuberant and bright.
“See you tomorrow! See you!”
No, someone, someone was missing, weren’t they? He swallowed thickly, his
fingers flexing at his sides. How could he have forgotten something so
important? Kenya straightened his spine, and slowly, he turned, his skates
scraping loudly against the ice. He forced his eyes up, to meet the gaze of the
person they’d left behind.
He was right there, only a couple of feet away. In this white world, his dark
hair seemed so wrong, so out of place; and now none of this seemed right, he
wasn’t meant to be standing there at all. He was supposed to be chasing ahead,
like the others—but instead, he continued to stand stock still, trying to
control his breathing. But the strangest thing were his eyes: wide and
panicked, even on the verge of tears.
He was terrified.
Kenya looked down at the boy’s feet, and for the first time, saw the cracks
spreading across the ice.
Satoru’s voice came out, choked and tight. “K-Kenya—”
“It’s alright,” he assured him, holding out his hands. “Don’t move. I’m right
here, okay?”
He watched his partner-in-crime stiffly nod, his legs trembling. Slowly, Kenya
began to inch closer, his feet gliding over the frozen water. Every couple of
seconds, there was a deafening crack from below; they didn’t have much time.
 He could feel his own fear, bubbling up his chest, strangling his throat.
Kenya forced himself to keep it out of his voice, to keep his tone even and
calm.
“You’re going to be alright,” he repeated, stopping at the edge of the web
unfurling under his friend. He couldn’t get any closer than this, so he arched
forward, reaching out towards Satoru. “Just take my hand.”
The other boy nodded, leaning in as well, his pale fingers outstretched. They
were just a little too far: their fingertips brushed against each other, close
enough for Kenya to feel the heat radiating off of his friend. He furrowed his
brow and grit his teeth, willing himself to extend just a little further—
A sound like thunder exploded in his ears, and the ice gave way.
Kenya saw the realization dawn on Satoru’s face before it disappeared, along
with the rest of him, beneath the black water. Instantly, Kenya was on his
knees by the edge of the ice, plunging his hands desperately into the river. It
was cold, and it burned,it burned like his eyes were burning, but he didn’t
care. His fingers groped blindly through the darkness, searching, grasping for
any sign of his friend. He screamed the other boy’s name, his throat painful
and raw.
After an eternally long moment, a voice met his ears.
“It’s all thanks to you, you know.”
Kenya paused, staring down at his own reflection. He ripped his eyes away from
the water, following the sound. He looked up, across the chasm that had
swallowed Satoru whole. There was a man standing there, his tan trenchcoat
billowing in an invisible wind.
Something was cradled in his arms: a small body that was all too pale, too wet,
too still.Despite the blue of his lips, he didn't even shiver; he simply hung
limply from his teacher's hands, without any of those little white breaths
escaping his mouth.
He took in Satoru’s lifeless form with wide eyes, Yashiro’s voice continuing
relentlessly in his ears.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Kenya.”
 
 
He jerked awake, his whole body starting violently. His chest was heaving under
the blankets, and Kenya took in the familiar ceiling, trying to force himself
to calm down. He sat up with a long, deep breath, pushing his sweat-soaked
bangs away from his forehead. He could feel his heartbeat rampaging and rushing
through his ears.
He ran his hand over his face, turning to find the clock on his bedside table.
Four in the morning. He somehow doubted he could get back to sleep now, not
with those images still floating to mind. He moved to climb out of the sheets,
when another hand found his, gently entwining their fingers.
Kenya followed the arm back to its source, and instantly felt the adrenaline
from the nightmare begin to recede. Satoru blinked up at him with unfocused,
half-awake eyes, his hair scattered in every possible direction. “Where’re
y’goin’?” he muttered, his voice thick and muddled with sleep.
The blond couldn’t resist the relieved smile he felt coming to his face, and he
reached his hand up to rake it through that thick, dark hair. “Nowhere. I'm
sorry for waking you.”
His boyfriend gave a small hum and released his loose grip on Kenya’s wrist,
still staring up at him with slightly furrowed brows. “Y’okay?”
“Just a nightmare,” Kenya replied, relishing in the sound of Satoru’s
breathing, taking comfort in the heat of his skin. He was right here: still
warm, safe, and alive. It was only a dream, he knew that—but he wouldn’t
pretend that having his boyfriend close didn’t bring the blond a world of
comfort.
“Oh,” Satoru mumbled, before spreading one arm open with a yawn. “C’mere?”
Kenya happily obliged, pressing his face into the crook of Satoru’s neck as he
pulled that slighter torso against his own. He held him gently, but tightly; he
could feel the other man’s arms settling around him as well, his sleepy voice
muffled against a head of blonde hair. “Good?”
He gave a content sigh of approval, burying himself against the constant beat
of Satoru’s pulse. “Much better.”
***** Kensato, lost and found *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt located on tumblr here.
“A basketball court?” Satoru asked, craning his neck around. The simple action
seemed to knock him off balance, and for a second he swayed; Kenya stepped
forward and extended his hands, ready to catch that slighter body in his arms.
To his credit, Satoru managed to catch himself on the crutches tucked under his
arms. He shot the blond a slightly embarrassed smile as he re-adjusted his
footing, his feet shifting on the polished hardwood.
“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice quiet and tentative. Kenya tried to show him an
encouraging smile, hoping that it hid the deeply-rooted worry and concern he
felt tightening in his chest.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied, gently placing a hand on his weak friend’s
shoulder. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah.” Those blue eyes turned down, looking nervously down at his feet as he
leaned on his supports. Pale fingers wrapped along the cross-handles, his tone
still unsure. “I—don’t think I can play, though, Kenya.”
“That’s okay.” They hadn’t really come here to play basketball anyway. He gave
his friend’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, and that timid, too-young gaze met
Kenya’s own. For the hundredth time that day, he had to remind himself that
this wasn’t a twenty-six year old in front of him, not really. He knew how many
years separated them from each other—and he knew exactly why.
Dissociative amnesia. Kenya saw the condition for what it was: a defense
mechanism. He knew what happened to Satoru that night, he’d gone over the
police file dozens of times over the years. And while Kenya had committed every
detail to memory, Satoru’s mind had done the opposite: it excised the
recollection of that night like a deadly infection, cutting it away from
Satoru’s waking thought. It was the only way it could protect itself—protect
Satoru—from the pain that was still too raw. Too real.
Kenya couldn’t fault him for that (no one could) but it still left a slightly
bitter taste in his mouth. For all his years of searching, in the end, he and
Sawada had very little to show for it. Satoru’s memory was the key to unlocking
the killer’s identity—and it was the one thing they couldn’t seem to get back.
Not that they hadn’t tried. It had been months since Satoru had opened his
eyes, and despite meetings with psychologists and police, nothing they did
seemed to trigger a memory. They came close when Kayo visited, with Mirai
tucked in her arms; for a moment, it looked like a faint flicker of the
familiar was back in Satoru’s eyes. But that visit ended with Satoru crumpled
on the floor and his wheelchair on its side, gripping his head and crying out
against the hammering pain in his skull.
The doctors had said it would just take time: Satoru was understandably
frightened by all the changes to the world around him. Until he felt safe, his
mind wouldn’t unlock the wall that separated him from that night in 1988. It
might be years until his memories came back.
If they ever came back at all.
Kenya curled his hand into a fist by his side, watching as Satoru took in the
basketball court with large, curious eyes. He wanted to make him feel safe. But
how could he promise to protect him when the man who tried to murder him was
still out there somewhere? The blond tried to breathe through the adrenaline he
could feel coursing through his veins, through the fifteen years of frustration
and regret still burning under his skin. Just the thought of the murderer
walking free, getting closer—
Satoru turned, offering Kenya a bright grin. The lawyer couldn’t help but smile
back, feeling his heartbeat slow and muscles relax. His fist slowly unclenched,
white knuckles easing and fingers falling loose.
He had Satoru back. That was enough.
Kenya shrugged off his blazer and walked over to the benches, draping it over
the wood as he picked a ball up from the rack. He gave it a testing
bounce—though, to be honest, he had no idea what made a basketball better than
another—before turning back to Satoru, the ball tucked under his arm. “How
about we pass back and forth a little bit?”
His friend nodded, releasing his grip on his handles and holding his hands out
in front of him. Kenya gently tossed the ball in his direction, letting it
rebound off the ground before meeting Satoru’s waiting palms. The other man
blinked a little as the plastic met his fingers, before his whole demeanour
seemed to brighten, as if someone had exhaled life into his tired limbs. He
looked up at Kenya with a small, excited smile, passing the ball back.
“We used to do this at the children’s centre, didn’t we?”
The blond resisted the urge to cheer (or cry), and accepted the pass with a
subdued smile of his own. Every memory that Satoru had—that he’d managed to
reclaim—was a victory, no matter how small. The basketball traveled from
Kenya’s hands back to Satoru’s, thudding along the floor. “Yeah. We did.”
“The hoops were a lot smaller, though,” Satoru noted, looking up at the nets
hanging at either end of the court. “I don’t think I could make a basket here.”
“You’re a lot taller now, too,” Kenya noted, feeling the rough plastic of the
ball re-enter his hands.
Something flickered across Satoru’s eyes for a second, but it was gone as
quickly as it appeared. He gave a soft nod and a hum of acknowledgement,
accepting the pass from Kenya with ease, despite the crutches that were still
braced under his arms. For a few minutes they simply stood there in comfortable
silence, letting the sound of the ball colliding with the floor fill the space
between them.
Kenya had chosen the basketball court exactly because it was something they had
done as kids. It was familiar enough that Satoru would hopefully find it
comforting; besides, his doctors said activities that used his hand-eye
coordination would benefit him. Satoru was doing well in physiotherapy—well
enough that they could go on little excursions like this—but re-gaining his
reflexes would take longer. More practice. Kenya was happy to provide.
He watched as the ball fell out of Satoru’s hands, and his companion gave a
disappointed sigh. Kenya stepped forward to retrieve it for him, and with the
closed distance, could see a thin sheen of sweat spreading on Satoru’s neck.
His spine folded and he lifted the basketball into his hands, shooting his
childhood friend a concerned look. “We should take a break.”
“I’m fine,” Satoru murmured, but Kenya could hear the breathlessness he was
trying to keep out of his voice. He offered the ball out to his exhausted
partner, and watched as Satoru accepted it with both hands.
“Take a minute to catch your breath,” he said, offering a small smile. “And
I’ll go get us some drinks from the vending machine. What would you like?”
Satoru gave a tired smile of his own, staring back at the blond through his
sweat-soaked bangs. For now, at least, he seemed to have accepted the idea of
taking a break. “Something cold, I guess?”
“Something cold,” Kenya confirmed, giving his friend one last pat on the
shoulder before beginning to move towards the exit. “Alright. I’ll be right
back.”
If Satoru heard him, he didn’t reply; his eyes were fixated on the ball in his
hands, his fingers running along the harsh and uneven surface. The lawyer gave
a small smile at that: he hoped Satoru would be able to regain at least some of
the things he had lost. Not all of his memories were terrifying: Kenya would
help him remember that. With that in mind, he pushed the swinging door in front
of him open, and stepped out into the hall of the sports complex. He could have
sworn he saw a vending machine just around the corner.
Kenya barely took four steps before he heard something hit the floor.
It was a loud thump, followed by the clattering of metal on wood. Instantly,
Kenya whirled around, staring with wide-eyes back the way he came. He threw the
doors open as he ran through, his shoes skidding across the polished wood.
Almost instantly, his eyes found his dark-haired friend: no longer standing,
his body doubled over even as he lay on the ground. The basketball bounced away
from him, its rhythmic bouncing keeping pace with Kenya’s quickening heartbeat.
“Satoru!” he called, running as fast as his legs would carry him. He fell to
his knees next to his friend, reaching down to grip at those shaking shoulders.
Satoru’s hands were pressed to his temples, as if trying to hold his head
together in one piece. His brows were furrowed tightly in pain, and his voice
escaped in irregular gasps, as if struggling just to breathe.
Kenya swallowed thickly and continued to hold that slighter body in his hands.
It was the Kayo visit all over again: Satoru was on the edge of another memory.
A part of him knew he should be glad, but he couldn’t force himself to feel
it—not with his friend shuddering and shaking and hurting underneath his palms.
Slowly, he ducked his head, his brown eyes seeking Satoru’s unfocused and
frantic blue. “Satoru, can you hear me?”
“I—” He gasped, leaning heavily into Kenya’s hands. “The basketball—”
Kenya frowned, struggling to keep his voice and expressions as even and steady
as he could. He spoke softly, delicately; as if too high a volume, the wrong
inflection, would shatter the person in front of him to pieces. “What about the
basketball?”
“Gas pedal,” Satoru continued, his hands moving to grip Kenya’s wrists. “He, he
put it on the gas pedal, and—the car, I—” He stopped, his eyes squeezing shut
as he gave another short gasp of pain. It took Kenya a moment to grasp what
Satoru was talking about, and he leaned closer, praying that his friend
couldn’t feel the rapid beating of his pulse.
“Who,Satoru?” he asked, scanning the other man’s pained expression. He knew he
shouldn’t: it was a bad idea to push Satoru’s memories too far, to force him to
tear down the gates his mind had painstakingly crafted to keep him safe. But
the answer was painstakingly close, and Kenya could feel that Satoru was
lurching over the precipice of remembering. So he tightened his grip on his
friend’s shoulders, and repeated, his voice firm: “Who did?”
Satoru’s eyes snapped open, and something was different. There was something
settling in that gaze, like a sediment blanketing the fear and the unease
with—what, conviction? Determination? Kenya couldn’t quite describe it, but the
stare that Satoru fixed him with was sharp and aware. His fingers tightened
their grip around Kenya as if uncertain, but his voice came out stable and
sure.
“Yashiro.”
***** Kensato vs. Yashisato, red riding hood AU *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt located on tumblr here.
     Recommended reading: Peter Stumpp on Wikipedia here.
Satoru slipped the satchel over his shoulder, feeling the familiar weight
settle by his hip. He gave one last check to make sure he had everything he
needed: a flask of water, some bread and dried meat in case he got hungry,
and—most importantly—the canvas, tightly rolled and tucked into the bottom of
the bag. He brushed his fingertips along the fabric affectionately, before
pulling the buckles around it tightly shut.
He’d spent weeks on the painting, his fingers still covered in the tell-tale
multi-colored stains. Most of the time he was commissioned to do portraits and
charcoal sketches, and he didn’t dislike those—far from it, he was happy he
managed to subsist off his art alone—but it felt good to work with a brush in
hand again. It was slow, but there was something about the long strokes that
never failed to put his mind at ease.
But he’d feel even better when it was delivered, safe and sound to the person
who’d commissioned it. He couldn’t say a certain hunter felt the same, though.
Kenya scowled at him, the embodiment of displeasure: arms crossed and eyes
narrowed, his body stiff under the red capelet around his shoulders. “You
shouldn’t go,” he declared, watching Satoru from his seat in the artist’s
kitchen. His sharp, pointed hat sat abandoned on the table, temporarily
deserted next to the huntsman’s rifle. Satoru dropped his boots next to them,
settling in a chair opposite his friend.
“I’ll be fine,” he assured him, reaching for one of his shoes. “Besides,
weren’t you the one said they only come out at night?”
The blond’s glower deepened, watching intently as Satoru slipped his feet into
the well-worn leather. “That doesn’t change the fact that the wolves are
increasingly aggressive these days,” he pointed out, leaning forward on his
elbows. “Something has them riled up, Satoru. You shouldn’t leave town when—”
“I’m just going to the inn,” he interrupted, tightly lacing up the black hiking
boots. The lodge was only halfway between their hamlet and the next, only a
couple of hours walk at most. As Satoru understood it, a drunkard had put a
hole through the tavern’s prized painting. It would be a quick trip: all he had
to do was deliver the replacement and head home. “I’ll be back before sundown,”
he promised, standing to his feet.
Kenya rose with him, sighing in irritation as he reclaimed his rifle, slinging
it across his back. With one hand, he brushed his blond hair down, before
pressing his hat back onto his head with the other. “I won’t be able to change
your mind,” he stated plainly, shooting his friend a side-long glare.
“Nope,” Satoru replied pleasantly, fishing the key to his home out of his bag.
“You’re worrying over nothing, Kenya. Really.”
After a tense moment, the hunter released a long sigh, stepping up to his dark-
haired companion. “I probably am,” he admitted quietly. But his fingers sought
the strings that kept the small red cape around his neck all the same, and he
pulled, the knot coming loose. Kenya strode up to Satoru slowly, gently draping
the crimson fabric over his friend’s head of dark hair. “Take this, at least.”
The painter quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t pull away. The cloth smelled
like—like dry earth and horses and gunpowder. Like the hundreds of days the
blond had spent in the forest, tracking and protecting their small, quiet town.
It smelled like—likeKenya, and he allowed his friend to adjust it with soft
touches, making sure the cowl fell properly across Satoru’s neck and shoulders.
“Your riding hood?”
“It should smell like hunter,” Kenya explained softly, gently and carefully
tying the thread into a knot at his friend’s collarbone. “Wolves might be
beasts, but they aren’t dumb. If you cross paths with one, it should know
better than to get close to you.”
Frankly, Satoru still didn’t think it was necessary, but he could tell it
brought comfort to his long-time friend. He reached up and tentatively ran his
fingers along the hem of the cloth: ever since Kenya had officially become one
of the town’s defenders a few years ago, he’d never been without this cape.
Like everything else the huntsman owned, it was often used but impeccably taken
care of, not a single strand loose or out of place. He tugged the well-loved
hood more comfortably across his head, a small smile playing at his lips.
“Thanks.”
Kenya nodded in response, before staring seriously into Satoru’s blue eyes. He
was trying to be calm and authoritative, but Satoru could see the cracks
forming in that gaze, doubt and concern creeping into his voice. “Just—be
careful?”
“I will be,” he promised, tugging the door open. “I’ll see you soon, Kenya.”
 
 
Hot.
As much as he appreciated the capelet—and everything that it symbolized—god,
this thing was stifling.He didn’t know how Kenya put up with it, and Satoru
glowered, sweating and dishevelled under the thick fabric. Removing it, or even
just pushing the hood back, felt like a betrayal towards the man who’d
entrusted it to him. So Satoru put up with it, tilting his head back and
pressing his flask to his lips. Only a few drops slipped out, and he let his
hand fall, disappointed.
If he was lucky, the landlady at the inn would greet him with some cold ale.
Yes, a nice, cool drink and a place to rest his feet while they put the
painting in the frame. That sounded amazing right about now. Then he’d take his
payment—enough to live off of for months, really—and head home, back to Kenya’s
side to return this suffocating cowl he loved so much.
Satoru rounded the corner, happily embracing the shade of the thick trees. It
plunged the entire path into a deep, dark shadow, but he found he didn’t
mind—it brought a pleasant change in temperature, and he closed his eyes,
happily inhaling the cooler air. He was so focused on his own relief that he
didn’t notice the other traveller on the road until a voice, all too close,
interrupted his thoughts.
“Good afternoon!”
His heart nearly leapt out of his chest, and Satoru’s whole body started in
response, his eyelids flying violently open. He whirled around once, then
twice, his wide eyes not immediately finding the source of the sound. But then
his gaze landed on the dark shape, sitting languidly perched on a large boulder
on the side of the road.
The man stared at Satoru in vague surprise and slight concern, his head tilted
a little to the side. No wonder he hadn’t seen him: he was dressed so darkly he
practically melted into the deep wood behind him. For a long second, Satoru
just stared, trying to make sense of him; there was rarely anyone on this road,
let alone someone so—so immaculately dressed. His attire was clearly tailored
in a way that Satoru could never hope to afford, but it must be stifling:dark
clothes were a bad idea in this heat, even without the pitch-black fur shawl
that was draped across the man’s shoulders.
The stranger blinked at him again, apparently undisturbed by the temperature,
plucking a thin pipe from between his lips. “My apologizes,” he offered,
balancing his elbows on his knees. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” Satoru muttered, still trying to get his breathing under control.
“I just—didn’t see you there.”
The traveller gave a short bark of a laugh at that, a playful smile tugging at
the corners of his mouth. “You did look rather… relaxed,” he said, popping the
tobacco back into his mouth. “Long travels?”
“Not really.” He stared at the man warily, peering from under the rim of his
hood. “Just hot.”
“It’s quite cool here,” he stated simply, watching Satoru intently through his
dark bangs. Despite the heat, something about all this caused a shiver to run
down his spine. “You are free to rest here if you like. I wouldn’t mind the
company.”
It wascool here, and it did feel nice; every so often there was a small breeze,
and it prickled against Satoru’s sweat-soaked skin, bringing sweet relief. But
the wind also ruffled the smell from Kenya’s hood, and the painter gave a slow,
deep inhale. He’d promised to be back before sundown; knowing the blonde, he’d
send out every hunter in the town to find him if he wasn’t back in time. “I’ll
pass,” he replied, readjusting his satchel and turning to leave. “But thank
you.”
“Ah, wait!” the stranger called, shooting Satoru a brief grin. He clenched his
teeth to keep his pipe securely between his lips, both of his hands flying to
his belt. When Satoru turned to look back, a flask was being held out in his
direction, the sound of water sloshing back and forth meeting his ears. “At
least have something to drink before you go,” he offered, shaking the container
a little. “You look parched.”
Shit. Satoru licked his dry lips, and suddenly his throat felt ten times dryer.
It wouldn’t do for him to collapse from dehydration before he even got to the
inn, or so he told himself as he stepped up the dark-dressed man, tentatively
accepting the flask with a quiet mutter. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” One hand went back up to hold his pipe, but he extended the
other to the painter, radiating friendliness and ease. “I’m sorry, I didn’t
even introduce myself, did I? My name is Yashiro. Gaku Yashiro.”
The villager stared at the hand for a moment, before reaching out and gripping
it in his own. The skin against his was calloused and rough, even more so than
Kenya’s. He gave it one firm shake before retreating, uncorking the water
gratefully. “Satoru Fujinuma.”
“Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Satoru.” Yashiro leaned back on
his now free hand, reclining on the rock that he had made his roost. “I hope
you aren’t going far, without any water.”
“Just to the inn up the way,” Satoru said, finally pushing the thick red hood
back and off his head. For a second, he could have sworn he saw Yashiro’s
pupils dilate, the grip on his pipe going slack; but then that smile was back
on his face, and he watched with eager attention as Satoru tilted his jaw back
and gratefully gulped down water.
“That hood,” the dark man began. “Are you a hunter, Satoru?”
“Huh?” He paused, wiping a trickle of water away from the corner of his mouth
as he handed the flask back to its owner. “Oh. No, a friend leant this to me.”
Under the man’s intense stare, he couldn’t help but want to pull the fabric
back over his head, and he did, feeling the comforting scent of Kenya re-
enveloping his senses. “It’s supposed to keep the wolves away.”
That sounds so much stupider out loud.
Yashiro hummed, taking a long inhale from his pipe. “Oh? Are you frightened of
wolves?”
Not really, but he didn’t feel the need to say so. Instead, the painter quirked
an eyebrow. “Isn’t it natural to be?”
“I wonder.” The man blew the smoke out between his lips, and leaned forward,
balancing the pipe between his fingers. “Tell me, have you ever heard of the
werewolf of Bedburg?”
Satoru didn’t answer, or even shake his head. Frankly, he wanted to exit this
conversation as quickly as possible, and hoped the stranger would take his
silence as the refusal it was. Apparently not, because he continued
unperturbed, leaning his head on the heel of his palm. “It’s a terrible tale,”
he said, eyes half-closing. “A small town, haunted by a beast. They say the
monster gorged on the villagers, devouring their hearts right out of their
chests. Dozens upon dozens of them, women and children alike.”
His hands wrapped around the strap of his satchel, his knuckles turning white.
Still, Yashiro kept going, his eyes never breaking from the painter’s own;
Satoru found himself unable to look away, his pulse pounding in his ears.
“When they finally caught the demon, do you know what they found?” he asked, a
small smile quirking at his lips. “A man. Wrapped in a wolf’s pelt, yes—but
just a man, with human flesh hanging from his teeth.”
His blue eyes narrowed into a glare, taking one slow step away. “Why are you
telling me this?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm.
“So you understand,” Yashiro began, slipping the black pipe back between his
teeth. “Not all beasts wear fur, Satoru. There are worse things than wolves in
this world.”
He needed to leave.
He needed to leave now.
“Thank you for the water,” he whispered suddenly, turning on his heel. The last
thing he wanted now was to be alone with this person, but a hand suddenly
reached out and grabbed his wrist, cementing him to the spot.
“There’s a faster way to that inn of yours,” Yashiro said pleasantly, his tone
betraying the tight grip curling around Satoru’s arm. “A shortcut through the
woods, if you prefer.”
Satoru pulled his hand loose, and was both relieved and surprised to find that
the dark man let go of it easily. “I’ll be fine on the main road,” he answered
hurriedly, marching determinedly back towards the path. He reached up and
pulled Kenya’s hood tight around his shoulders, suddenly feeling the need to be
covered in the bright, vibrant red.
“Safe travels, Satoru!” the stranger called back from his boulder, making no
move to follow. “And remember—beware of beasts!”
 
 
Satoru walked quickly after that.
Every so often, he turned his head, expecting to find—what? Yashiro?
Werewolves? He shook his head, feeling the cowl sway around him with the
movement. Firstly, werewolves didn’t actually exist: the strange man’s tale had
made that clear enough. He didn’t see what Yashiro had hoped to achieve by
telling him such a morbid account, but something about the man’s dark eyes
wouldn’t leave his memory. It sent a quiver through his bones, and Satoru
quickened his pace, glaring at the dirt road before him.
The faster he got to the inn—and back to town—the better. He should have
listened to Kenya: he should never have come out today, especially not alone.
Thankfully, it wasn’t long until he rounded the bend, catching sight of the low
wooden fence that marked the lodge’s territory. Satoru let out a slow sigh of
relief, feeling some of the tension ache out of his shoulders. Despite being in
the middle of nowhere, the inn was well-frequented, by virtue of being the only
place for a pint for miles. The idea of being surrounded by people, even
drunken boisterous ones was a welcome one, and he half-jogged up to the door.
It was already a little ajar, and with one hand, Satoru gently eased the wood
forward.
He blinked into the darkness, able to see little except his own shadow,
silhouetted by the sun spilling in from the open door. The curtains were all
drawn, making it difficult to see; the drapery did its job too well, thoroughly
covering the already dirty windows. But the strangest thing was the silence. No
inn was never this quiet, even in the middle of the night: he strained his ears
to listen, but heard nothing, not even from the rooms upstairs. Satoru placed
one hand on the doorframe, his fingers curling into a fist against the grain.
Something was very, very wrong.
Slowly, he stepped forward, placing his weight slowly on the screaming
floorboards. Some tables were knocked over, that much he could tell, but
otherwise everything was as he remembered it. The bar was still there, at the
other end of the room, but it was empty and unstaffed. It didn’t make sense:
even if no one was staying here, surely the landlady wouldn’t just abandon the
place for the day?
The sole of Satoru’s boot met something wet, and he turned his eyes downwards,
to the red puddle he found pooling under his feet.
Blood.
The breath fled from his lungs, and Satoru followed the trail, to the pale and
mangled things that must have been people, once. They were scattered all over
the floor, limbs—or, or what was leftof their limbs—bent at unnatural angles,
pieces of skin and flesh torn from their bones, from their faces. But the floor
was painted crimson with that slick, coppery scent, and he nearly slipped on it
as he tried to back away from the gruesome scene. Someone’s eye rolled against
his heel, and Satoru brought a hand to his mouth, resisting the urge to be
sick.
Just as he turned to run, the front door slammed shut with a bang.
And Satoru found himself face-to-face with the one person he wanted to see the
least.
Yashiro leaned back against the closed exit with a smile, one hand sprawled
across the wood from pushing it closed. “Satoru,” he called, his voice dripping
with a sweetness that didn’t reach his eyes. “What a coincidence.”
Every instinct Satoru had told him it was definitely nota coincidence, and he
slowly began to move backwards, feeling a cold sweat beginning to trickle down
his neck. The darker man tilted his head back slightly, clearly amused as he
took in the sight of his retreating prey. With a short hum, he moved forward to
reclaim the distance, effectively pushing Satoru farther and farther into the
dark tavern. As he passed by one of the bar tables, Yashiro trailed his fingers
along his surface, leaving a streak of wet red as he passed. Belatedly, Satoru
realized those hands were covered in blood.
“You—you killed them.”
“They would have interrupted us,” Yashiro confirmed, pausing in the middle of
the room.
He didn’t want to know exactly what Yashiro was planning, but Satoru had the
sinking feeling he was about to find out. His spine met the wood of the long
bar, and he froze, his eyes skimming the lobby for something—anything.A weapon.
A way out. He made sure to look back to Yashiro, who was staring at him with
that same smile, perfectly at ease.
“What, you want to kill me too?” Satoru growled, his fingers curling against
the edge of the bar.
“At first,” he admitted, taking a few steps closer to the painter, standing
trapped against the counter. “I had planned to make a meal out of you, right
there on the road.”
A chill ran through Satoru’s veins. Meal?
“But then you pulled back that hood,” Yashiro continued, steadily approaching
and closing the gap between them. A bit of sun trickled in from between the
drapes, and it cast itself across the taller man’s face. For a moment, Satoru
thought it was a trick of the light—it had to be, how else do you explain that,
but—no, there was no mistaking it. Beyond those dilated pupils, Yashiro’s eyes
were no longer the dark black they were on the path.
They were gold. The realization poured over Satoru like a cold river, surging
over him and choking his breath. He stared up at the approaching man—no, not
man, beast—with wide eyes, his mind scrambling to grasp at this new reality and
find a way out of it all at the same time.
“It was your scent,” Yashiro growled, a wet tongue swiping against his upper
lip. “It was—divine.”
“You’re a werewolf,” he panted, his eyes narrowing at the shifter before him.
It wasn’t a question, or an accusation—simply a statement of fact, and a hungry
grin spread across the animal’s features.
“I told you, Satoru.” With two firm steps, he shattered the space between them;
Satoru watched helplessly as two long arms settled on either side of him,
gripping the bar and trapping him against the wood. Yashiro’s voice dipped into
a low whisper, his hot breath landing on the villager’s face. “Not all beasts
wear fur.”
One of those blood-stained hands reached up for him, and Satoru flinched,
waiting for pain—but it didn’t come. The sticky wetness only tangled in his
hair, and he could feel Kenya’s hood fall away, tumbling down to his shoulders.
“Much better,” the wolf whispered, his fingers moving to the nape of the
villager’s neck. From here, Satoru could see so much more, could make out every
horrifying detail of Yashiro’s form. The sharpness of his fingernails against
his skin, the black and pointed ears in equally dark hair, the dilated eyes
that practically glowed in the dark. He gave another shudder, staring up at
that predatory grin.
His mouth and mind moved together, the words slipping out loud before he was
aware. “Big teeth.”
A low, amused chuckle echoed out of Yashiro’s throat, and he slipped his
crimson fingers under Satoru’s chin to tilt it upwards. “All the better to
devour you with, my dear.”
The human winced, his entire body jerking a little at the words. It was his
hands that twitched the most, and he could suddenly feel something cold brush
against his knuckle. Without tearing his eyes away from the hungry gold before
him, he wrapped his hand around the familiar weight.
Satoru made sure his grip was tight and firm—before smashing the glass against
the creature’s face.
The wolf stumbled backwards with a cry of pain and surprise, his hands
retreating and flying to his now-bloody skin. Satoru pushed past him quickly,
his feet slipping and skidding in the gore. He needed to run, run, run—
His hand wrapped around the door handle, and he pulled it open, just as a roar
met his ears from behind. It was far too loud, too gutturalto be human. Satoru
thrust himself out into the sunlight and quickly turned, pulling the hinges
closed behind him. Just in time: he felt something heavy slam against it, the
impact causing the door to shudder in its doorframe, the force of it trembling
up his arms. A booming growl bellowed from beyond the wood, its tone dangerous
and low.
“Satoru!”
He’d never thought his own name could be so terrifying, and though every
instinct wanted him to freeze on the spot, Satoru forced his legs to move. On
the open road, he didn’t have a chance: the monster would catch up with him in
no time. His only hope was to lose him in the woods, and Satoru bolted,his eyes
focused on the treeline. The odds of losing a wolf in a forestwas low, but what
other choice did he have?
None, he reminded himself—a fact punctuated by the sound of the door crashing
down somewhere behind him. He didn’t slow down: he could still make it, he
couldstill—
Something heavy met his back, and Satoru found himself pinned, face-first in
the ground. It knocked the wind out of him, and he coughed, inhaling the dust
and dirt in his nose. His hands reached up ahead of him, scrambling for a hold,
some way to crawl away from the thingon top of him. But a large paw pressed
down against his spine, and in the corner of his vision, he could see a dark
snout descending to growl beside his face.
Against his better judgement, Satoru turned his head to stare. This wasn’t a
normal wolf, it was—it was huge, as tall as a man, easily. And right now it was
fixing him in its cold, narrow gaze. They stared at each other, before it
ducked its head to bury its nose in the artist’s neck. The panic bubbled up in
Satoru’s throat, and his fingers began to rake against soil anew. “Don’t—!”
“Stay still.” The beast’s voice was gruff and rumbled in Satoru’s ears, and it
was the only warning he got before those big teeth sank into the base of his
neck.
And Satoru screamed.The pain was—it was everything, inescapable and all-
encompassing. All he could feel were those sharp fangs, digging into his
muscles, sinking under his skin and tearing into his veins. At some point his
voice must have died in his throat, because next thing he knew he was panting,
his eyes burning and hot as that jaw moved away from his flesh.
He reached a trembling hand to the wound, feeling his own blood pouring out
over his fingers. He’d expected the monster to rip his neck out, but it—hadn’t.
All it did was bite, once, deeply, painfully—and then release. A cold nose
rubbed against his hair, inhaling deeply. Something that sounded like a pleased
hum reverberated from the wolf’s chest, and he nudged the villager with his
head, fur brushing against the artist’s tear-stained cheek. “Satoru—”
A deafening thunder exploded in his ears, and suddenly the animal’s weight was
gone. Satoru forced his wet eyes open: he could still see Yashiro’s shadow in
his vision, curled low and poised to strike. Something like a snarl tore itself
from the unnatural beast’s throat, and Satoru turned his head, his nose finding
the smell of gunpowder.
Someone was there, sitting atop a horse, his rifle braced against his shoulder.
A pointed hat on golden hair.
“K-Kenya?”
“Get on!” the hunter yelled, his voice drowned out as another shot flew out of
the barrel. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Yashiro lunge away, a
bullet landing where the wolf was just seconds before. Two gold eyes fixated on
Kenya, and the monster braced itself against the ground, a roar ripping out of
the creature’s open jaws.
It was exactly what Satoru needed to get moving. He scrambled to his feet, one
hand still clutching his wound as he ran to the stallion. His friend never took
his trained gaze off Yashiro, brown eyes narrowed in concentration. Satoru
could just barely see the werewolf lunge his way, but another crackle of
gunfire stopped the beast in his tracks—it bought Satoru just enough time to
slip one foot into the stirrups, hoisting himself into the saddle.
The shifter gnashed his teeth, snapping at the air; Satoru ignored it,
painfully wrapping his arms around Kenya’s waist. Without taking his attention
off the enemy, the hunter sank his heels into his steed’s side. Satoru held on
for dear life as they broke straight into a gallop, the sound of Kenya’s rifle
crackling once again in his ears.
The gunfire, the hoofbeats, even the sound of his own pulse ringing in his
ears—none of it could drown out the sound of Yashiro’s sudden, anguished roar.
Satoru spared one last look over his shoulder as Kenya reclaimed the reins, and
caught a brief glimpse of black. Yashiro was injured, blood-soaked and
limping—but more importantly, he was furious.
Those hate-filled eyes were the last thing Satoru saw as they turned the bend,
and escaped towards town.
***** General, Magical Girl AU *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt on tumblr located here.
     Prompt is marked as General, but can be interpreted as: SatoKayo,
     KenSato, HiroKayo or YashiSato. (Or all of the above!)
Hinazuki Kayo’s mornings were quiet, and she liked it that way. Silence was
comforting: silence wasn’t the sound of shouting, of glass bottles shattering
against walls, of cheaply manicured palms meeting broken and battered skin. She
moved around the empty apartment quietly, her small and socked feet slipping
across the hardwood floor. It was mostly habit at this point, but also because
the stillness let her concentrate. In the hush of the mornings, when the world
beyond these thin walls still dozed, she could better feel the warmth that was
reserved for her and her alone.
Because Hinazuki Kayo was fifteen years old—and she had an imaginary friend.
Well, not the ordinary kind, at least.
The teenager brushed her teeth and stared at her reflection in the mirror, face
and hair still dishevelled with sleep. She wasn’t particularly hungry for
breakfast—a relic of so many days being forced to go without—and for a brief
moment, she considered skipping the meal entirely. It wasn’t long before a
chastising hum echoed through her being, and a small smile twitched at her
lips. As she passed through the kitchen, she compliantly slipped a slice of
bread into the toaster.
This was always how it was between “them.” Kayo never had that childhood
fantasy of seeing someone who wasn’t there, of hearing a voice that didn’t meet
her ears. This thing, this companion of hers, never made itself known to her
that way. It was more like—like a feeling, deep in her very core. On her
darkest nights, when the beatings and the bruises had threatened to overtake
her, it had been there. When she had shivered, barely clothed on the warehouse
floor, it had settled over her skin like a soft blanket. It was—light and soft
and warm, and she could feel it reaching out to her even now, like small hands
petting her hair.
It was that feeling—that friend—that had encouraged her, reluctant and scared,
to lift her sleeves in front of her teachers. She had felt it hovering
protectively close when the adults from some agency came. And when everything
had changed—when the world was rushing past her faster than she could keep
up—she could feel that same warmness: like hot milk on a cold, chilly night,
wrapping around her hand. It squeezed tight, grounding her, murmuring wordless
promises in her chest.
The case workers had thrown around words like “unfit as a guardian,” “lack of
resources in foster care” and “emancipated minor,” asking Kayo if she would be
alright alone. And she nodded, because they didn’t know what she knew.
Kayo was never alone. She had this: this tenderness that wasn’t her own, but
thrummed through her blood all the same.
For years, it was all she’d never had. So it was all she’d ever need.
She took in the sight of herself in front of the full-length mirror, giving a
brief spin. Her new uniform fluttered around her, the fabric stiff and
unfamiliar. She wasn’t particularly optimistic about making friends: she’d been
effectively shunned in elementary and middle school, and high school would
probably be much of the same. Frankly, she didn’t think she needed friends—not
the external, human kind, anyway—but a part of her still longed for that
normalcy. It caused a niggling nervousness in her chest, and she adjusted her
bangs, never satisfied.
As much as she hated to admit it, Kayo was—plain.
A plain, ordinary fifteen year old girl. With too much baggage. And an
imaginary friend.
Her lips pressed together tightly. It was the first step in her new life,
and—and what if everyone could tell that something was wrong with her? That she
was different, that she was weirdand broken in more ways than one?
The thoughts hadn’t even finished forming in her head when she felt that
ethereal affection settle around her shoulders, giving a light embrace. And
through the tightness in her throat, she couldn’t help a small laugh at that.
“I’m fine,” she promised, rubbing at her eyes. She looked back at her
reflection, taking her red and swollen eyes and plain, pale face. “H-how do I
look?”
An approving wave washed over, and a smile forced its way onto her lips. She’d
gotten quite good at parsing the emotions that her ‘friend’ tried to convey,
and the message came through as clear as any words she’d ever hear. She could
feel the gentle reassurances, the echoes of you look greatand everything’s
going to be fine.It was chased out with a familiar promise, a determined rumble
of I’m right here.
“Mm,” she agreed, humming appreciatively as she pressed a hand to her shoulder.
She could never physically feel it, but she didn’t need to; she knew it was
there, and that was enough. Kayo inhaled deeply, like her psychologist had
taught her to do. Before she lost her nerve, she crossed the apartment,
stopping in the doorway. She slipped on her shoes before shrugging her bag over
her shoulder, prepared to step out. It was her ‘friend’ that gave her pause,
tugging lightly at her consciousness. Kayo stopped, confused, before turning
back to the kitchen.
“Right,” she muttered, plucking the toast from the toaster. “Thanks.”
The feeling settled back into the recesses of her mind, content. That’s always
how it was: dormant until it was needed, until it felt the need to make itself
known. Kayo let it sleep, offering silent thanks as she opened the front door.
She gave one last look at her dark, sterile studio apartment: her safe haven, a
quiet place for the two of them alone.
“I’m heading out,” she called to no one in particular, before pulling the door
firmly shut behind her, and stepping out into the world.
 
 
At first, things had seemed to be going quite well.
She walked and ate in comfortable silence, teeth sinking into the crisp bread
and sweet jam. Kayo liked her case workers: they were considerate without being
overbearing or affectionate, and had worked diligently to find her somewhere
within walking distance to her school. It let her have these little moments,
this quiet commute. Her eyes moved across the branches of the cherry blossom
trees as she went, trying to follow individual petals as they fluttered to the
ground. She pushed the last bit of the toast into her mouth and chewed,
actually content for the first time in what felt like years.
Until she heard a sound that was all too familiar. It was higher-pitched and
less human than she was used to, but Kayo would recognize it anywhere. Her feet
stopped suddenly, her whole body jerking as it twisted to face the park on the
other side. She scanned the area quickly, every muscle tense and tight with
trained anticipation, looking for whatever it was that had made the noise.
Her eyes found the source immediately: a small huddle of young boys, no older
than seven or eight—but one of them had a stick in his hand, and he raised it
high, prepared to rain blows down on the thing curled defensively at their
feet. The sound of the impact echoed straight through Kayo’s very being,
punctuated by the sound of their victim, sharply crying out in pain.
Like the way she used to do.
Her imaginary friend surged up in force, and Kayo’s own emotions rose up to
meet it. Their rage roared in unison—a violent storm of not okayand cruel,
cruel, cruel!—and her hands curled into fists, knuckles shuddering and white.
Kayo didn’t have any talents to speak of, except one: intimidation. So she
narrowed her eyes into a practiced and fierce glare, striding over with loud,
determined steps. Her voice was ice cold as it slipped past her clenched teeth.
“What are you doing?!”
The children’s heads whipped up in unison, and for a moment, none of them
moved. Then one of them yelled in surprise, and before she knew it, all of them
were shouting. The boys scrambled: they took off in every possible direction,
tripping over themselves and not sparing a glance back. For a second, Kayo
considered giving chase—she imagined grabbing them by the ears and delivering
them to their parents’ scornful eyes—but she quickly set those ideas aside.
Instead, she turned her softening eyes to the small creature that was steadily
trying to bring itself to its feet.
“Oh, poor kitty,” she whispered, crouching down. Its short, blonde fur was
matted and bloody in places, and she resisted the urge to reach out and touch
it. For a moment, it managed to stand, before collapsing back down with a soft
little thump. Kayo winced, knowing exactly how much that hurt. Which is why
there was no way she could just leave it here: it was clearly wounded. But she
didn’t even know where the nearest vet might be, let alone anywhere else she
could get it medical attention.
But there had to be something—
Kayo blinked, the idea forming solidly in her head. Her invisible companion
hummed its approval, and she looked back down at the cat, lying on the ground.
“Shh, it’s okay,” she muttered, tentatively and slowly reaching out, so as not
to startle it. Somehow, she was going to have to carry it; hopefully, moving
the wounded animal wouldn’t hurt it too much. Cautiously, and carefully, she
slipped her fingers under its ribs—
—and there was a woman there, her face contorted in a deep, deep sorrow. Her
dress was white, once, you know this; it was white like these broken and burnt
down walls were supposed to be. But now everything, even that pristine colour,
was gone. Lost in a swirl of war and blood and ash.
It isn’t the only thing you’ve lost. Both of you. Her blue eyes stare down at
you, both begging you to go and pleading with you to stay. You don’t have an
answer for her, so you turn your eyes to her guard. Your trusted teacher. His
eyes are harder, but grieving all the same; a part of him is surely blaming
himself, for things turning out this way.
Howdidthings turn out this way? You stare down at your bloody hands, at the
rapier you have balanced on your slick and ragged palms. The rest of you is
bleeding, too—broken in more places than you can name, you know that, but can’t
feel it. You can’t feel anything but the guilt and regret, like a void that
fills faster than the blood surging out of your wounds. But somewhere, deep,
deep down, you can feel it—that grief, that mourning—settling into something
hard. Determined.
Your hands don’t shake when you wrap your hands around the blade, pointing the
tip at your own chest.
And, without hesitation, you—
Kayo gasped, struggling to regain the breath she hadn’t realized had been
ripped from her throat. Something like electricity was coursing along her skin,
pricking and hot against her pores. The feeling was intense, almost painfully
so, but that wasn’t what bothered her, what sent her heart beating into this
frantic panic.
No, for a moment, she could have sworn she had been—been elsewhere, but—no, she
still here. In the park. She stared disbelievingly down at the warmth in her
hands: there was no blood and no blade, just the broken and battered cat. It
breathed softly and slowly, but didn’t squirm. Instead, it just stared up at
her, with sharp brown eyes.
Watching her. And if she hadn’t known any better, she’d think it
looked—surprised.
More importantly, it seemed complacent enough to be carried, and that was all
she could hope for. Pushing the strange vision out of her head, at least for
now, Kayo turned her attention back to the task at hand. Gently, she cradled
the thin cat in her arms; it made a sharp noise of pain, but didn’t fight. She
whispered a quick apology, and after making sure it was secure in her hold,
took off at a sprint.
There was still time before school had to start: she just hoped she had enough.
 
 
She’d only been in here for five minutes, but Kayo already hatedhigh school.
The layout was nothing like middle school: there was no rhyme or reason to the
maze of hallways and doors, no clear logic behind what leading to where. The
building almost felt like it was designed to frustrate everyone within its
walls—a fact that wasn’t helped by the crowds of upperclassmen, milling about
and clogging every artery.
She had no patience for it. Kayo mumbled only the most surface of apologies as
she elbowed her fellow students aside, her arms trying to both support and hide
the little creature they held. Her school slippers skidded as she turned the
corners at top speed. Her heart was beating too fast, her lungs burned in her
chest, and her neck was stiff and sore—the result of having her head turned
upwards, desperately scanning the faceplates above the doors.
Her eyes ran along the kanji faster than her feet could carry her, and with
every wrong answer, she could feel her heart plummeting in her chest.
Teacher’s Room. Guidance Counsellor. Supply Closet.
Kayo narrowed her eyes at them all, teeth grit and distress mounting with every
passing step. She braced herself to take off at another sprint when her
familiar, formless warmth tugged at her shoulder. Her entire body whirled
around in the direction, her gaze landing immediately on the words she was
looking for.
Nurse’s Office.
She lunged at the door, one arm untangling from the cat to slide the entrance
open with a bang. It was still rattling when Kayo shoved herself through the
doorway, rushing immediately for the nearest cot. Every bed was, thankfully,
empty; she allowed herself the slightest relief at that and slowly—gently—set
the animal down, careful to make sure it didn’t put too much weight on any of
its worst injuries.
Not that Kayo actually knew what those were. The blows had broken the skin in
places, but Kayo knew from experience how many of those wounds were invisible:
how many of them were unbearable aches and pains that didn’t even colour the
skin. Her face twisted again in fury, and it fuelled her resolve. She spun on
her heel, turning around to look for something, anything that could help.
Instead, she found a round face and equally wide, round eyes staring at her.
“H-Hinazuki-san?”
Kayo jumped, instinctively shielding herself with her arms and staring over
them. This person was a stranger, dangerous, stay away! The panic was bubbling
up in her throat, and it was only the roaring assurances from that incorporeal
entity that kept her from drowning in it; she could feel it coaxing her back,
metaphorically taking her hand and leading her back to reality. As it did, bit
by bit, the face in front of her became familiar; her stance slowly relaxed,
her lips and tongue stuttering out the syllables. “S-Sugita-kun?”
That’s right: she knew him. They had gone to middle school together—elementary
too, even. He was the nurse’s representative in her class at least once; she
remembered thinking that he was the classmate she had had to hide the marks
from the most. If he had seen, he would have insisted on taking her to an
adult—something that, at the time, was as akin forgetting how to breathe. The
one time he’d noticed a bruise, she glared and told him she fell. If he ever
saw any more, he had never asked about them again.
Kayo hadn’t seen him since they’d taken her out of school. When—everything, had
happened. He’d gotten a little taller, actually. But his eyelashes were still
unnaturally long, his face still soft with feminine child-like features. Now
that she got a good look at him, she couldn’t imagine ever having thought he
was a threat. She could probably even take him, in a fight.
She stood there for a long moment, her mouth trying to find the words to say.
Luckily, a soft meow from behind found them for her.
“Sugita-kun,” she declared, anxiety forgotten as she crossed the distance
between them. “I need your help.”
“I—you do?” he asked, taking a tentative step back. Kayo didn’t allow it: she
grabbed his hand, tugging him over to the cot. For a moment, he stuttered,
stumbling after her with a red face—until he noticed the little animal sitting
on one of the beds, filling the room with the sound of its loud and ragged
breaths. Sugita stared down at it for a brief moment, before looking back up at
Kayo, confusion lacing his features. “What—”
“I found him like this in the park,” Kayo interrupted, staring down at the
bloody creature, her fingers wrapping tightly against Sugita’s own. “I don’t
know what to do, but—but you were the nurse’s aide, right?” she asked, turning
to him with eyes alight. “You can help, can’t you?”
Sugita stared back at her, before down at the mess of tangled fur and blood in
front of them. “I-I mean, I’m not a real nurse or anything,” he muttered,
gently reclaiming his hand from Kayo’s grip. He bent in close to the animal,
stopping only when he heard a reproachful growl echo from its throat. “Uhm, I—I
can try. Yeah.” He swallowed thickly, before turning back to his classmate.
“Can you bring me some—some gauze? And antiseptic? They should be in one of the
cabinets.”
Kayo nodded and did as she was told, rushing over and tugging the doors open.
Her fingers pushed bottles and boxes aside until they found what they were
looking for: she grabbed the rubbing alcohol in one hand and a long roll of
bandages in the other. She didn’t bother closing the cabinets before jogging
back over to the bed.
Sugita had already rolled the cat onto its other side, his fingers gently
pressing against the animal’s torso. “I don’t really know anything about cats,”
he admitted quietly, a bit of sweat running down his pale and panic-stricken
face. Somehow, despite this, his fingers remained steady and sure. “But I—I
don’t think anything’s broken.”
Kayo gave a slow sigh of relief, handing him the items. “What can I do?” she
asked.
“Uhm,” he muttered, tearing off a clump of the bandages. He folded it with
shaking fingers into something like a square, before popping the bottle of
antiseptic open. The scent assaulted Kayo’s nose, stirring up memories with it;
she swallowed them back down, forcing them into a box in her mind. “Maybe you
could—if you can—can you hold it down?” he asked, spilling the liquid onto the
fabric. “This might hurt. And he might—you know.”
“Right,” she said, reaching down with a gentle, but firm grip. Kayo took the
cat’s front paws in one hand and softly—very, very softly—pressed the other
against the side of its head, keeping it against the sheets. A small, muffled
growl reverberated against her palm, and she forced herself to ignore it.
Instead, she gently teased her fingertips against the animal’s ears. Hopefully
it was comforting.
“Okay,” Sugita murmured, before beginning to softly dab at one of the cuts. The
reaction from the animal was instant: a loud hiss followed by a weak thrashing,
its back legs squirming and attempting to claw at something it couldn’t see.
Kayo winced—out of sympathy, not pain, luckily—and she could feel her invisible
companion’s concerned ache, its instinctive desire to comfort and protect. She
felt it, too; it’s what drove her to keep stroking at the cat’s ears,
whispering little words of comfort as Sugita worked.
Before long, they rolled the animal over, inspecting the previously unexposed
side for wounds. Luckily, most of the blows seemed to have been concentrated on
the other side; it took less time, and before either of them knew it, they were
done. Sugita deftly wrapped some clean bandages around the shuddering
creature’s torso, tying it into a tight knot on its back, where the cat
couldn’t reach. “I think… that’s everything,” he muttered, tentatively stepping
away.
Kayo nodded at him, before slowly removing her hands. Immediately the animal
was on its feet—or, trying to get on its feet, anyway. Between its injuries and
the soft surface of the bed, it was swaying and stumbling more than standing.
Still, it eventually managed to get all four paws unsteadily under itself, its
legs shuddering under its own weight. It was Sugita who moved first, hands
reaching down to help—but immediately, the cat’s eyes turned to him, a low
growl-like moan emanating from its throat.
“N-nevermind,” he muttered, taking a step back with his hands complacently in
the air. Once the feline seemed to deem him no longer a threat, it turned its
gaze back to Kayo, staring up at her with something akin to curiosity. For a
brief second, she could feel that electricity again, coursing along her
skin—but it was gone as soon as it had begun, flaking away into nothing.
“I think he likes you,” the boy said, offering her a small smile. Kayo blinked
at Sugita, before looking back down at the animal who refused to take its eyes
off of her, meeting its gaze.
“What do I do now?” she muttered. They couldn’t just abandon it here in the
nurse’s office. But letting it go out on its own didn’t seem like a good idea,
either; the poor thing could barely stand. It didn’t look like it could walk,
let alone get anywhere or find some food. If Kayo had been going home, she
would bring it with her, but she wasn’t: she still had class today. It was bad
enough that they had probably both already missed the entrance ceremony.
“Oh,” Sugita uttered, watching as the animal slowly approached the edge of the
bed. It looked down at the floor, and if Kayo didn’t know better, she would say
it looked vaguely insulted, or maybe disgusted. Either way, it looked back up
at her, and then back down—before giving a short, unsteady leap right into her
bookbag.
“Hey!” she snapped, crouching down after it. Her hands moved as if to grab it,
but she pulled her fingers back; treating it too roughly would be a bad idea.
She had expected the cat to tear immediately into her lunch, but it didn’t: it
simply made a small turn about itself, before sitting itself comfortably beside
her textbooks and her pencilcase, and staring up expectantly.
Sugita leaned over her, pressing his hands to his knees. “I mean,” he muttered,
scratching at his face. “That’s… not a bad idea, actually?”
She looked up at him incredulously.
“I mean,” he muttered, pointing down at the cat. “It looks like he’s not going
to make trouble, right? And nobody’s going to go through your bookbag, so…”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you an idiot?”
“Ah,” he stuttered, giving a sheepish smile. “There’s the Hinazuki I know.”
The words felt like her mother’s fist, burying itself in her stomach. The
Hinazuki that Sugita knew: the one who skipped class every Monday, the one who
had to hide the contusions staining her skin, the one who cowered in the shed
on cold, winter nights. It had been so long since she had been taken out of her
mother’s care; had she really—not changed at all?
She pursed her lips tight, blinking past the burning in her eyes before turning
back down to the cat. It had since found a comfortable position for lying, its
tail curled around itself. Still, it stared up at her with chocolate eyes,
expectant and waiting. For what, she still didn’t know; but at the very least,
it didn’t seem upset when she zipped the bag nearly entirely closed and tugged
it onto her shoulder. The voice in her throat was thick and cold as it left her
lips. “I’ll see you later, Sugita-kun.”
“O-okay!” he replied, watching as she stormed out the door. He cupped his hands
around his mouth and called after her back: “See you, Hinazuki!”
Kayo would be happy if she never had to see Sugita again.
 
 
Their first day was only a half-day, and Kayo thanked every deity she could
think of for that.
Her mood had been soured by the conversation with Sugita. The irritation and
shame had settled over her skin like a film, and no matter how much she
scratched at her wrist, it never seemed to go away. It didn’t help that, every
once in a while, she could feel her bookbag shifting against her ankle. Every
time, Kayo held her breath, her eyes darting around the classroom—waiting for
someone to notice. Only when the weight had resettled did she resume breathing,
letting out a silent sigh of relief through her nose.
Once class was done, the cat should be strong enough to walk on its own. She’d
release it somewhere near the park, somewhere it recognized—and then this
horrible day would be over.
She just needed to get through class. Kayo tried to focus on what her teacher
was saying, but all she could hear was her own heartbeat, beating in her ears.
They were doing introductions, now; her classmates standing one by one. Only
when the wave had made it to her row did Kayo realize she would be expected to
do the same. A cold sweat began to run down the back of her neck, and she
stared—wide-eyed—down at the worn surface of her desk.
What could she say? My name is Hinazuki Kayo, I have an imaginary friend? Also,
a beaten up stray cat hidden in my bag? Not to mention all the other problems
that came with her, all the secrets that they could probably read like scars on
her skin; the beatings, the bruises, the panic attacks that she still couldn’t
avoid. She tried to force herself to smile as the person in front of her stood
to attention.
That comforting feeling was there, squeezing both of her clenched hands. It
spread over her skin then, chasing away the panic and fear, like slipping into
a hot bath. Now, the smile came to her face naturally; when the teacher called
her name, she found herself standing alongside her invisible companion,
practically feeling it hovering by her side.
“My name is Hinazuki Kayo,” she began, quietly. The warmth nudged at her to go
on, little waves of be yourselfand just be honestcrashing against the nervous
fluttering in her chest. “And I—I want to make a lot of friends.”
She practically slammed herself back into her seat, eager to be out and away
from the spotlight. The person behind her stood, and Kayo felt no small amount
of pride emanating from her secret confidante. It wasn’t a good
introduction—that much, even she could tell—but it was good for her.A good
step. Her psychiatrist told her to embrace the little victories, so she did,
letting her friend’s pride mingle with her own.
But she couldn’t resist the quickest of glances down to the floor—and through
the small, open sliver of her bookbag, Kayo met a sharp brown eye, still
watching her.
 
 
Kayo was out the door before the bell even finished ringing, her bookbag tucked
securely against her side. She tried to keep it from bouncing as much as she
could, holding it between her ribs and her arm. Her feet met the pavement
quickly, but she resisted the urge to run; it would only draw attention to
herself, and increase the risk of one of her textbooks falling onto one of the
animal’s wounds.
But she walked as quickly as she could, thankful that the park was at least on
her way home. She came to a stop across the street from it, staring at the open
area where she had first spotted the cat this morning. The day felt longer than
the four or so hours that had actually passed since then; the sooner this whole
affair with the cat was done, the better.
Gently, she set the bag down on the sidewalk, crouching down to set the zipper
free. The animal was as she had left it: curled up next to her books, silent
and unmoving, save for the occasional twitching of its ears. Her fingers tugged
her bag invitingly apart, and she leaned back, expecting it to move. As always,
it continued to peer up at her, its tail swishing back and forth.
“Come on,” she coaxed, pressing her finger to a patch of unbloodied fur. “Time
to go.”
It tensed slightly at the contact, tail stopping mid-sway—but it didn’t stir.
“Okay,” she huffed, gently reaching down and slipping her hands around its
torso. A low, irritated groaning noise met her ears, and she ignored it. She
couldn’t bear to bring it back into the park, so she softly set it down on all-
fours on a low, concrete wall to her side. It stood easily now, without any of
the unsteadiness she had seen in the nurse’s office. It was a comforting
development, and she nodded to herself, shrugging her bag back onto her
shoulder. “Be safe, okay?” she offered, before turning to continue her walk
home.
What she didn’t expect was for the cat to start walking with her. Kayo frowned,
shooting the animal a side-long stare as it followed after her, its feet moving
deftly across the top of the wall. As always, it kept watching her, despite the
dancing of its little paws as it struggled to keep up. After a couple of steps,
she stopped, and watched the blond cat stop with her, its eyes still fixed on
her.
“Stop following me,” she muttered. “Please.”
It blinked at her twice, and Kayo sighed, shooting the animal a dry glare. As
if having an imaginary friend wasn’t enough, now she was trying to reason with
cats. She stared the injured creature, its little chest heaving from the effort
of trying to match her pace.
“Fine,” she conceded, stepping back up to it and opening her arms. To her
surprise, it leapt up to meet her, its claws lightly gripping the fabric of her
uniform. Kayo closed her limbs around it, cradling it as she resumed her
commute. “But just for tonight, okay?”
A short meow met her ears, and Kayo sighed, moving to gently scratch at one of
its ears. She was far enough away from school now that she didn’t really have
to worry about being seen—and besides, carrying a cat was a lot less suspicious
than having one stuffed in her bag. Eventually, it climbed its way out of her
hold, settling itself atop her shoulder. She offered her hands, prepared to
catch it when it fell from its perch, but it remained steady. The weight was
oddly comforting, so she let it be, walking up the stairs that led to her
apartment.
She slipped her key into the lock, listening to the comforting sound of the
mechanism clunking against itself. When she was younger, she used to despise
coming home; now, she longed for it, craved the solitary safety of her
apartment. The door gave way to her hand, and Kayo sagged against it once it
was closed behind her, giving a little sigh of relief as she toed off her
shoes. She locked it again behind her, and then drew the chain, before finally
making her way back into her small studio.
First things first. Her hands found the short, blond fur they were looking for;
it was surprisingly soft, now that she thought about it. She lifted the cat up
and off her shoulder, before setting it down on the floor and making her way to
the refrigerator. The only thing that met her inside was cold, a carton of
eggs, some milk and some fish she’d planned to heat up for dinner. Of course,
no cat food—because Kayo didn’t have a cat, and still didn’t. She sighed,
reaching for the milk. She’d have to share some of her fish for dinner with it,
that was for sure.
She pulled a saucer out of the cupboard, watching from the corner of her eye as
the cat leapt up onto the kitchen table. At the very least, she could give it
something to drink.
She had just begun to pour when a voice met her ears. “You live alone?”
Kayo froze mid-pour, tilting her hand to stop the flow of milk as she stopped
to stare at the animal, sitting and watching her with its cat-like eyes. It
blinked at her once and tilted its head. “That makes this easier, then.”
The saucer fell to the floor, and shattered at her feet. Kayo could feel her
mouth opening, her lips twitching from the effort to form words, but nothing
came: she could only watch, frozen, as the cat gave her an unimpressed stare.
“I was looking forward to that.”
“You’re talking,” she whispered disbelieving, setting the milk down on the
counter without ripping her eyes away. “You’re—talking.”
“Yes,” he replied, his tail swiping left and right against the table. “I had
hoped that would be obvious.”
“You’re a cat.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he replied dryly.
Kayo’s mouth continued to hang uselessly open, taking one slow step towards
him, over and across the shards of porcelain at her feet. This couldn’t be
happening. No, this was—this was a hallucination. Something she would
definitely need to bring up at her next appointment: another symptom, alongside
her imaginary friend, that she was slowly going insane. Said companion was
practically buzzing with curious excitement, like a child bouncing on its
heels. Kayo felt none of that joy: only a deep, tentative trepidation as she
took in the impossible sitting on her kitchen table.
“Firstly,” he continued, ears twitching. “I believe introductions are in order,
Hinazuki Kayo.”
She opened her mouth to ask how it knew her name, but she shut it almost as
quickly. It had spent the entire day with her, after all—if he hadn’t learnt it
from Hiromi, he definitely would have in class. Not that she needed to justify
why her own delusion knew her name in the first place. Regardless, it continued
to speak, its brown eyes fixed on her.
“My name is Kobayashi Kenya,” he said. “Royal Captain to the Prince of the
Ishikari Kingdom.”
Kayo’s brain stuttered somewhere long before the title. “Ken-nya?”
The cat bristled at the pun. “Don’t call me that.”
“And you’re a—captain?” she whispered quietly. The information was trickling
slowly into her brain, and she couldn’t help but find it hard to think. Her
imaginary friend was practically going wild, buzzing and jostling at her
senses. It had never been like this before: it had always been a comforting and
grounding presence, anchored in her being. Now it felt like it was bursting at
the seams, like it was trying to escape the confines of her skin.
“I’ll get to that in a moment,” Kenya continued. “First, I have a question for
you, Hinazuki Kayo.”
His sharp, feline eyes narrowed in her direction, scrutinizing the schoolgirl
in front of him. “Do you ever feel like you aren’t alone?”
Kayo brought a hand to her chest, above where she imagined this warm presence
came from, and curled her fingers into a light fist.
She nodded.
The cat—captain—seemed to relax at her words, leaning forward and tapping a paw
against the wood. “Good. Please, have a seat.”
She was vaguely aware that he was offering her a seat in her own home, but she
accepted it, sliding down into the chair. The spilled milk was soaking into her
socks, but she didn’t care. The blond entity in front of her watched intently,
as if seeing her again for the first time. After taking a moment to collect his
thoughts, she watched his spine straighten with resolve as he took a deep
breath.
“As I said, I hail from the Ishikari Kingdom.” As if anticipating her
confusion, he added: “You will not find it on any map, because it is not from
this world. Rather, it is its own—parallel to this one.”
Somehow, the idea of another dimension made a lot more sense to her than
talking cats and invisible friends did, so she nodded.
“As I understand it, our worlds diverged eons ago,” Kenya said. “Where your
reality embraced science and technology, mine chose a different path. In your
world, you would call it magic.”
Kayo’s eyebrows flew up, but one look from the cat and she knew she should keep
her mouth shut. She folded her hands in her lap, silently waiting for him to
continue.
“Members of the royal family are the strongest, the most adept at utilizing
this power. As I have stated, I served the Royal Prince as his Captain and
personal guard.” Here, he paused, the corners of his feline mouth twitching
downwards. “Until we were—separated.”
“Separated?” she echoed. Deep down, she could feel her companion stirring,
anxious and upset.
“The Ishikari Kingdom was betrayed from within,” Kenya continued. His eyes and
voice remained even, speaking with a trained objectivity. His body betrayed
that control, his claws extending and tail twitching. “By one of the Queen’s
advisors. A man named Yashiro Gaku.” The cat’s irises dilated, his back arching
as his voice took on a feline growl. “He used a side to magic that none should
ever touch, and began to lay waste to the kingdom. And everyone within its
walls.”
Her imaginary friend’s anxiety burst into something else; something like anger,
but not quite. It was the resentment that comes from an old wound that never
healed, and she could feel it seeping into her. “Why?” she whispered.
“Magic is stronger the more people are exposed to it,” Kenya explained shortly.
“That is why the Royal Family’s is so potent. As rulers, their magic is in tune
with everyone in the kingdom. By spreading his magic—infectingpeople with
it—Yashiro gained strength. It was the only way for his power to have a chance
at defeating the Queen and Prince.”
“Because he wanted the throne,” Kayo said. It wasn’t a question, but Kenya
nodded all the same.
“He did not succeed,” the cat continued, his voice firm. “The Prince—he managed
to defeat Yashiro. He pushed the enemy beyond the borders of our realm and
formed a barrier around Ishikari, protecting it from Yashiro’s power.” Kenya’s
ears fell flat against his skull, his former fury tempering into something
softer, more melancholy. “But it came at a great price. The barrier took
everything he had—and the force of it separated the Prince’s soul from his
body.”
Kayo could already see where this was going, and she felt her invisible friend
patting her hand. “What happened to his soul?”
“It was lost in the void between worlds,” Kenya stated, matter-of-factly.
“Souls are not meant to be untethered. It was only a matter of time before it
found its way to another land, into another body.”
She tried to curl her fingers around the warmth against her palm, tried to
grasp the formless thing that had always been by her side.“And you think
he’s—in me.”
Kenya nodded again. “I suspect the arrival of the Prince’s soul in this world
coincided with your birth. As such, he was tied down to your physical form.”
Those feline eyes softened, his tail curling around himself. “I knew it from
the moment we touched, Hinazuki Kayo. That he was buried inside of you.”
Kayo stared down at her hands, towards the invisible feeling she still felt
holding her tight. Grounding her, comforting her, even now.
For years, she had accepted that it—he—was just a figment of her imagination, a
coping mechanism she’d long embraced as her own flawed reality. Now, someone
was telling her that he was real. That should have made her happy—or, at least,
validated somewhat—but she felt none of it. This was a—a completely separate
person, trapped in her body, with no power or control. Guilt curdled in her
stomach, and instantly she felt him again, surging up and offering it’s not
your faultand you couldn’t have known.Somehow, it only made her feel worse.
“If—if his soul got separated from his body, then—”
“He isn’t dead, if that is what you are assuming,” Kenya interjected. “His body
still lives and breathes, independent of his soul.”
“Where is it?” she asked, leaning forward. Being locked away in someone else,
unable to move or speak or be heard—Kayo remembered the feeling. Remembered
staring out at her classmates, at the world that revolved around her, and
wanting to scream. Wanting to run to some island far, far away, as her feet
carried her home. She knew the feeling for what it was: torture. And yet,
somehow, the Prince had always managed to put Kayo first. Soothed her when she
was anxious over her stupid insecurities, while he was held hostage in her
skin.
He was the one who had given her that freedom, had encouraged her to break the
shell her mother’s influence had placed over her. If she could set him
free—give him back his body, his freedom—then she would do whatever it took.
Anything. But that fleeting hope was fading faster than the light in Kenya’s
eyes.
“Yashiro has it.”
Kayo inhaled sharply, but Kenya continued before she had the chance to
interject, his voice thick. “After the Prince’s soul fled our world, I fought
to at least defend his physical form. But I was—overpowered,” he admitted, his
head leaning guiltily forward. “I failed. Yashiro could not return to Ishikari,
but he fled with the Prince’s body.”
A shiver echoed across Kayo’s skin. “What does he want with it?”
“The only one who can bring down the barrier is the Prince,” Kenya explained.
“Yashiro must intend to reunite his body and soul, and compel him to break the
seal on the Ishikari Kingdom. Then nothing will stop him from completing his
coup.” The cat looked back up then, meeting Kayo eye-to-eye. His eyes were too
smart, too awarefor a house pet. It was unsettling, but she couldn’t make
herself look away. “I knew our only hope to defend the kingdom was to find the
Prince’s soul—find you—before Yashiro did.”
Kayo wouldn’t exactly call their meeting Kenya findingher, but—wait.
“So… why are you—a cat?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Just as the Prince found you as a host, I needed one as well.”
She furrowed her eyebrows. That meant that Kenya must have come over as a soul,
just like the Prince did. Then— “What happened to your body?”
Kenya considered the question for a moment, and he didn’t tear his eyes away
from Kayo’s as he explained, his tone detached and even. “It was heavily
damaged in my battle against Yashiro,” he stated. “I asked the Queen to use her
powers to send my soul after that of the Prince, to be reincarnated in whatever
land he found himself in.”
Her friend—no, the Prince—was shrinking, curling in on himself, desperate to
hide. Desperate not to hear the words coming out of Kenya’s mouth. Still, it
was something Kayo knew they both needed to know, so she jumped straight to the
point, like ripping off a bandage.
“Yashiro killed you.”
The animal didn’t move from his spot sitting on her table, clearly studying
Kayo’s reaction to every word. “No. I was badly wounded, but it was not fatal,”
he explained. “With time, my injuries may have killed me. But time was a luxury
we did not have.”
The vision sparked back into Kayo’s memory. It had forced its way into the
consciousness the moment her hands met Kenya’s fur, and now she felt it
floating to the surface again, like fleeting pockets of air. A ruined castle,
its walls broken and barren and charred. A woman with sad eyes and dirtied
royal regalia. A bloodied sword balanced in hands that weren’t her own.
The feeling of the blade against her palms. The deadly sharp edge, hovering
inches away from someone’s chest, before—oh.
Before Kenya killed himself.
The reaction to the revelation was instant, and Kayo instinctually knew it
wasn’t her own. The Prince’s sorrow hit her like a wall, knocking the breath
from her lungs; it was frustrated and betrayed and mourning, but more than
anything else, it was overpowering.She could feel herself drowning in it, as if
she was plunged into a deep, cold water: it froze her limbs, made her audibly
gasp against the feeling storming in the depths of her very being. Desperately,
she tried to reach out for him—to comfort and soothe him, just like he’d done
for her hundreds of times—but Kayo knew platitudes couldn’t solve this hurt.
Nothing could.
She struggled to regulate her breathing, desperately trying to swallow down
air. Meanwhile, Kenya was still staring at her, concern glazing over his eyes.
“Hinazuki?”
“He,” she managed to choke out. “He—didn’t want you to do that.”
It was a huge understatement, a gross oversimplification of the feelings that
were still threatening to overtake her any second now, but the sentiment seemed
to get across all the same. Kenya looked guiltily down at his paws. “I know.”
Kayo’s spine curled forward, as if trying to somehow contain the Prince’s
agony, still screaming and raging under her skin. She needed something to
concentrate on, something other than this void opening up in her very being,
threatening to swallow them both down. So she forced her head up, still wincing
against the heartache stabbing into her chest like Kenya’s blade. “So what—what
now?”
The words seemed to snap Kenya out of his own gloom, and he stood to near-
military attention, despite his wounds. “You keep doing as you have always
done,” he said. “It has been—oddly effective at avoiding Yashiro’s gaze for
fifteen years. Though I do not imagine that will last long, now.”
She frowned, lips twitching downwards. “Why not?”
“When we met, there was a small burst of energy,” he explained. For a second,
Kayo’s mind went back to that electric current, crawling along her skin. The
hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood at the mere memory. “It was
barely a spark, but I am sure Yashiro has been diligently waiting for any sign
of the Prince’s soul. It won’t be long before he descends on this town to find
it.”
“He’s going to try to take him,” Kayo confirmed, and Kenya nodded, solemnly.
“I will not allow that to happen,” he asserted, irises narrowing. “My sworn
duty is to protect the Prince. I may have failed in Ishikari, but that will not
happen again.”
For a second, she considered bringing up that Kenya was—well, a cat.An injured
one, at that. It was only due to luck that Kayo had saved him today, and that
was from a bunch of seven year olds with sticks. She had the sinking feeling
that this “Yashiro” wasn’t going to be so easily intimidated or dealt with. She
tentatively reached out to the Prince, somewhere in her spirit—for the first
time, she felt him recoil from her. Kayo bit her lip, and let him be; the short
brushing was enough for her to feel the hollow, ripping feeling that Kenya’s
words had left. He was human, just like her: it would take time for him to
heal.
“Will he ever get back to his body?” she asked, fingers curling in on
themselves.
“That is the long-term goal. But first and foremost, we must keep his soul away
from Yashiro’s clutches,” Kenya replied. “If we lose him, then we have lost
everything.”
Kayo considered that for a moment. That the person she’d written off as an
imaginary friend for all these years was so important—that the fate of an
entire kingdom, entire world depended on him staying inside of Kayo. Hidden
away. Protected. She pressed a hand to her chest again, taking a deep breath,
for them both.
“You are taking this… surprisingly well,” Kenya noted.
“I don’t think it really sank in yet,” she admitted quietly.
The cat stood up onto his still unsteady feet, his face curling in a small
wince before falling back into feline impassivity. “That is to be expected,” he
said, walking across the polished wood to stop in front of the schoolgirl, head
tilted to the side. “All I ask is for you to remember that your safety is not
just your own, Hinazuki Kayo. You are not living for yourself—you never were.”
Against her better judgement, she reached forward and lifted the cat off the
table. Kenya didn’t struggle, allowing himself to be handled into Kayo’s lap.
His light weight and warm body, breathing against her own was, for one reason
or another, comforting. For the longest time, it had just been her and her
friend; she couldn’t remember the last time she had been this close to
something physical, someone she could actually hear and touch. Everything Kenya
said was—a lot to consider, but it became easier when she raked her fingers
across that oddly soft fur.
She briefly felt the Prince, his warmth snaking down her arms towards Kenya.
She could feel him in the air around the captain, his concern and longing for
his companion ghosting across her own fingertips. A small frown passed across
her face as she scratched at one of Kenya’s ears, whispering: “Can you feel
him?”
The cat looked up at her, staring for a long moment. “No. I cannot.”
The Prince retreated instantly, practically scurrying back into Kayo, leaving a
lingering taste of hurt in her mouth. When he shut himself off from her, with
was with an almost palpable bang,like a door being slammed in her face. She
told herself again that he was just going to need time; that so many of these
revelations were just as new to him as they were to her, only many times more
painful.
But it was the first time he had withdrawn so deeply, to somewhere she could
not reach. It was the first time in her entire, short life that Kayo had ever
felt—alone.
So she did the only thing she could. With fingers shaking, she tried to move
past the raw sorrow still thrumming through her veins, her throat tight as she
ran her fingers across the sleek, blond hairs. Kenya must have felt the
quivering, but he said nothing. He only continued to sit in her lap, stiffly
allowing his ears to be scratched. And they stayed like that, for a very long
time.
 
 
Her second day at school was worse than the first.
There wasn’t anyone to blame for that. Externally, everything had gone fine:
Kayo had even managed to speak a little to the classmate that sat beside her, a
girl with pigtails and mechanical pencils she liked to tap. Misato wasn’t the
kind of person Kayo would see herself talking to, normally, but she was adept
at carrying a conversation. It was easy for Kayo to slide in little opinions
and small talk. It was another step in the right direction, another thing to be
proud of.
She could feel the Prince inside of her, tentatively brushing out and letting
her know she was doing well. Kayo silently thanked him for that: she knew he
was still hurting. Every time he made himself known, even if it was to offer
encouragements and comforts, Kayo could feel those tendrils of pain. She tried
to coax him out and away from it, and he offered little feelings of I’ll be
fineand don’t worry about me. So she let him be, allowed him to sink back into
her, to somewhere he could lick his wounds.
For the first time, Kayo was forced to face how horrible she was at comforting
people. For all the reassurances and care the Prince had given her, she had no
idea how to return the favour. Didn’t know how to pull him out of the dark
corner he was lurking in. Still, she couldn’t help the feeling that she at
least had to try—so when the bell rang, she stood up, mechanically getting her
things together. Kayo had almost made it to the door when a voice cleaved her
thoughts in two.
“Ah, Hinazuki! Wait up!”
She absolutely did not wait, but Sugita seemed to catch up with her all the
same. He fell into step with her easily, offering her a bad imitation of a
relaxed smile. “H-hey, Hinazuki,” he panted, slightly winded from the effort of
dashing after her in the hall. “Are—are you headed home, now?”
She gave him a side-long look as she walked out into the school yard, gripping
her bag straps tightly in her fist. “Why?”
“Well, I was thinking—if you’re free,” he began, tripping over his words. “Do
you want to go down by the station today with me? There’s this new café, and
someone told me it’s really good!”
Kayo blinked for a moment, before staring over at him disbelievingly. “Are
you—asking me to hang out?”
“Y-yeah,” he confirmed, scratching his cheek.
She continued staring at him, her feet eventually slowing to a stop. “… why?”
“’Why’?” he echoed, as if legitimately confused by the question. “Uh… well,” he
began, looking away from Kayo and scratching at his cheek. “I guess it’s
because I want to get to know you, Hinazuki. And,” he added, his eyes flicking
back to her. “You always look so sad. Especially today.”
Kayo blinked at him, feeling her pulse beating rapidly through her veins. She’d
always thought she was good at hiding what she was feeling—and really, these
weren’t even her feelings to begin with—but Sugita had apparently noticed, all
the same. She didn’t know what to do with that information, and she found that,
more than anything, it—unsettled her. Scaredher.
The last thing Kayo wanted was for someone to be able to seeher. For Sugita to
be able to find every broken little bit of her that she tried to bury and hide.
The panic was beginning to swell up inside of her, her mouth opening, excuses
already forming on her tongue.
A small meow cut her off, and Kayo turned around to meet a pair of sharp,
chocolate brown eyes, watching her from their spot on the school gate.
“Hey, he’s back,” Sugita said, smiling up at Kenya’s stretching figure. Kayo
gave a small sigh of relief at the sight of the cat. Kenya had promised her
that he would be staying close-by, just in case; she hadn’t thought his
presence would be so immediately useful. She stepped up closer and let the
captain hop onto her shoulder, quickly finding his balance and settling there.
“Wow,” the boy muttered, walking up to Kayo. “You two are really close now,
huh?”
“I guess,” Kayo muttered, feeling Kenya’s tail swishing back and forth against
her sleeve. Sugita held out his hand, letting it hover in front of the animal’s
nose.
“Are you keeping him?” he asked, before reaching up the run his hand over
Kenya’s head. Immediately the cat gave a low growl, and Sugita’s hand jumped
back with a quick and desperate apology.
“He kind of followed me home,” she admitted, truthfully.
“Does he have a name?” her classmate asked, offering her a small smile.
The corners of her lips twitched upwards as well. “Ken-nya.”
Instantly she felt the cat’s head whip around to face her, his tail flicking in
irritation. Sugita laughed openly, adding: “That’s a cute name.”
“I think so too,” she said, reaching up to pat at the irritated captain’s head.
“I should get going. I don’t like Ken-nya being out,” she lied.
“Yeah, he still looks kind of hurt, doesn’t he?” Sugita raised up a hand as he
began to walk off. “Let me know if you ever want to hang out, Hinazuki! I’m
usually free!”
She watched him go noncommittally, one hand raised in a short wave before
walking off in the opposite direction, a soft sigh leaving her lips. Once she
had managed to walk away from the crowds of students milling about, she heard a
soft whisper in her ear, punctuated by the feeling of whiskers against her
neck. “Was that really necessary?”
“Sorry,” she whispered back, another little smile tugging at her lips as she
turned the corner. “I couldn’t resist.”
Kenya sighed, his claws tangling into the fabric of her shirt for stability’s
sake. “He’s a bad influence on you.”
Kayo raised a quick eyebrow. “Sugita-kun?”
“No,” he replied. “The Prince. It’s—the sort of thing he would have done.”
That was news to her. Kayo was intimately familiar with how the royal felt, the
fierce protective and affectionate sentiments he poured over her in her darkest
moments. She knew he was kind, and—if his reaction to Kenya’s untimely end was
to be believed—cared deeply for those he counted among his friends. But she
knew shockingly little about his actual personality: the way he talked, how he
made jokes, what he liked or disliked. For someone whose soul was inside of
her, Kayo knew surprisingly little about him at all.
Kenya’s head twitched up, watching as the crowds became thicker around them and
the houses began to give way to storefronts. “This isn’t the way home.”
“I wanted to stop somewhere,” she muttered under her breath, acutely aware of
how many people could now hear her talking to the cat on her shoulder. Besides,
she’d taken the long way around to purposefully avoid walking the same way as
Sugita—the last thing she wanted to do was run into him here and now, caught in
her lie.
Luckily, the bookstore wasn’t far off, and she ducked into it eagerly. It was a
small, quiet place, and she happily inhaled the sound of paper. She gave a
quick, cursory nod to the old man sitting hunched behind the counter, who
either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about the animal on her shoulder. The shop
seemed to be void of anyone else, at least for now; Kayo slipped thankfully
between the aisles, hearing Kenya’s quiet voice in her ear. “Are you really
just here for a book?”
“Kind of,” she whispered, scanning the titles. “I thought… there isn’t a lot I
can do for him.” She gave a quick glance to the animal on her shoulder. “But
maybe there’s—a book he’d like, or something like that. Then I could read it
for him.”
She could feel her friend then, warm and all-encompassing for the first time
all day. He spread through her veins like heated honey, filled with
appreciation and you don’t have toand thank you, Kayo.She couldn’t resist some
of that heat coming to her face, dying her cheeks red despite the smile on her
lips. It took her a second to realize that Kenya was purring,every breath
coming in and out in a soft and steady rumble. 
“Let’s find something for him, then,” he agreed, his voice still objective and
even, despite the content vibrations rumbling from his throat.
It wasn’t a very big store—Kayo preferred going to smaller shops, quieter
places with less crowds and less people—so they made short work of the novels.
Every once in a while Kenya interjected with his opinion, extended his paw out
towards a certain title. Kayo quickly learnt that what Kenya liked, and when
the prince enjoyed were two very, very different things: the captain gravitated
to long, complex novels, often translations of foreign classics. Meanwhile, her
invisible companion was almost childishly tugging at her, until Kayo was
standing in front of the manga section.
“He always had a flair for heroics,” Kenya noted as Kayo pulled a popular
shounen manga off the shelf. As soon as she flipped it open to the first page,
she could feel his content thrum spreading through her bones. She looked up at
the rows, and plucked the first volumes of a couple of different series from
their places. Hopefully the variety would be entertaining—and then they could
come back and get more of whichever ones he liked the most.
Kayo dropped the purchases down on the counter haphazardly, finally giving up
on trying to balance them all while still managing to keep Kenya on her
shoulder. The old man simply smiled up at her and began to scan them without a
word; the numbers slowly climbed on the register, and Kayo could feel her
meagre government allowance flying away from her. She didn’t care: a month of
eating cup noodles would be worth it. When the final total was displayed, she
reached into her bag for her wallet—and was frozen in place by the sudden,
piercing sound of a scream.
No, not just one. Dozens.
The cashier slowly turned with a small noise of curiosity, but Kayo was already
out the door, despite the protests coming from the cat clinging to her shirt.
Someone immediately bowled into her, and Kayo had to press herself against the
wall to keep from being swept away by the crowd. The man didn’t stop to
apologize, didn’t even seem to acknowledge that he had hit someone; he took off
at a sprint, along with everyone else that Kayo could see in this ocean of
panic. A pair of high heels were abandoned on the sidewalk, and through the
rush of stampeding bodies, Kayo could see people abandoning their cars, rushing
away on foot.
She kept herself pinned against the brick wall, tucked under the shadow of the
awning, and stared across the square towards the station. For a long moment,
Kayo tried to reconcile what she was seeing with some sort of logic, some idea
of reality, but she found she couldn’t—all she could do was stare at that
thing, throwing its head back in a strangled roar.
Kenya’s voice came through her stupor, harsh and commanding. “Kayo, we need to
leave.”
Her legs wouldn’t move. “What—what is that?”
“One of Yashiro’s creations,” Kenya explained quietly. “A human infected with
his grotesque magic.”
Kayo couldn’t believe that that thing was ever a person, but the longer she
looked, the more she could see it—no matter how much she’d rather not. Although
its jaw was stretched unnaturally wide, even though its skin had turned a
sickly, rotten grey, even though what was left of its human body was twisted
and contorted into a mess of arachnid legs and bloated muscle—she could still
make out a face, somewhere in there. A tuft of short hair and freckles.
Kayo had seen him before, throwing paper planes by the river.
She heard none of that man now as the beast let out another high-pitched,
anguished howl. The thing in front of her, it was—it was a monster, a sack of
weeping blood and gore spliced together with something evil, something beyond
all mortal understanding. It took another one of those screeches for Kayo to
realize there were wordsin there, nearly lost in the mess of wet clicking and
groaning.
“F-fill—void—t-t-thread—”
“Kayo,” Kenya snarled again. “It’s here for you—for him.We need to go.”
The creature was dragging itself along the cobblestones, towards one of the
people lying prone, a trail of dark slime following after it. She held her
breath as one of its clawed hands reached down to clutch that person’s throat,
lifting them up and off the ground. Their legs were kicking, hands scrambling
to remove the hold, his school uniform slowly being stained in the demon’s
sludge.
Kayo’s eyes widened. “Sugita-kun.”
The beast gave another moan, before throwing Hiromi against the stones.
Her mother’s face flashed before her eyes, and something in Kayo snapped.
She wasn’t alone: she could feel what was left of the prince’s restraint
exploding in her veins, furious and set in grim determination. It hardened her
own resolve, her panicked breath suddenly coming out in slow, even exhales.
Kayo’s eyes narrowed as she took in Yashiro’s twisted fiend, its hand still
tight around her classmate’s neck. A part of her was terrified—her clenched
fists were shaking, and she could feel a cold sweat beginning to run down her
face—but she took every step forward firmly, counting them, one at a time.
Kenya was yelling in her ear, but she couldn’t hear him. All she heard—felt?—
was the Prince in her veins, encouraging and fierce.
Just repeat after me, Kayo. Okay?
“Okay,” she whispered, coming to a stop in the empty square. The monster
finally seemed to take notice of Kayo, its dead and bloodshot eyes turning her
way with a low groan. She swallowed thickly, and raised one hand towards the
sky, the other stretched downwards towards the ground. She didn’t know why she
was moving in this way, but she knew immediately that it was right.Her arms
swung together in unison, clockwise, like the hands of a clock before snapping
together. The fingers formed a square with her index fingers and thumbs, and
she brought it up to her right eye to peer through, staring at the enemy.
“Revival!”
And then, everything went white.
 
 
When she managed to see again, blinking the flash out of her wide and stunned
eyes, the square was gone.
The monster was gone.
Kenya and Sugita were gone.
Everything was gone, except for that glaringly fierce glow. It was still there,
and it took Kayo a long moment to realize it was coming from her:she stared
disbelievingly down at her hands, at her—everything. Her limbs were glowing a
sparkling white, and she wiggled her fingers, watching the magic sweep off them
like glitter in a breeze.
Even her clothes were fluttering about her in this shimmering void, radiating
that soft light. Bit by bit, Kayo could feel the threads of her school uniform
detangling and unravelling across her skin. For a moment she considered that
they were going to wisp away from her, lost in this unreal space; but then they
started to twist around themselves again, reforming into a shape she didn’t
recognize.
Then again, she didn’t recognize any of this. And despite the soft ribbons
wrapping around her frame, despite the gentle hues hovering around her, despite
the intrinsic warmth this place held for her—Kayo tried to retreat from it, all
of it. It was too bright, too radiant—too unfamiliar and familiar at the same
time. She pressed her shimmering palms to her face, strands of her hair
floating weightlessly around her head.
The monster’s maw was there, waiting behind her eyes.
“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, whispering against her skin.
“That’s okay, isn’t it?”
Slowly, she lifted her eyes, staring at the person beyond her fingers.
She couldn’t tell you how she knew it was him.Kayo had never imagined what her
imaginary friend would have looked like if he were human, yet it was all
so—right.The pitch black hair, swaying in front of a pair of deep blue eyes.
The navy and gold royal attire, a cape fluttering on his back. But most
importantly—most familiar—was the smile on his lips. It was encouraging and
eager and soft all at once, and somehow, it was brighter than all the magic
floating around them—at least to her.
Kayo stared at him for a long moment, feeling the moisture pooling in her eyes.
There was so much she wanted to say to him—so much she wanted to hearhim say,
in that voicethat she could actually hear for the first time in her life.
Instead she just whispered, voice cracking in her throat: “Tell me. Please.”
“I can’t,” he answered. “The future is blank, Kayo. Only your own will can
leave footsteps there.”
She whimpered, her face contorting into a pained grimace. She didn’t want their
first meeting to be like this, with her this snivelling and begging after him.
But she needed him right now: she needed him like he always had, to fill the
cracks in her being, smoothing it over, making her strong again. “What if I
can’t walk there b-by myself?”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, beaming at her. “I’ll be right there
with you. Every step of the way.”
Kayo stared at him, still furiously rubbing at her eyes. Through the blur of
tears, the world seemed to shift and twist around her; wooden walls built up
around them, the warmth of the magic being chased away by the chill of a
Hokkaido winter. She hiccupped pathetically, her thin nightdress jumping with
her. “You promise?”
He didn’t hesitate, his words washing over her ears. “I promise.”
Tentatively, she took a step towards him, the cold of the warehouse floor
seeping up through her bruised and naked feet. With every step she could feel
the nightmare crumbling, flaking away at her heels. A hand was extended to her,
from the warehouse door; the light from the house outside was dyeing his skin
with a soft golden hue, and she ached for it, her child-like fingers hovering
inches away from his own.
“Are you ready?” he asked, quietly.
“Yeah,” she whispered, her skin tentatively brushing against his. “Together?”
He gently curled his fingers around her own, his grip soft and stable.
“Together.”
Kayo’s tight and tear-stained lips broke into a relieved smile, and she wrapped
her hand tightly around—
 
—the heavy weight against her palm. Kayo was vaguely aware that there were
cobblestones under her feet again, the last of the bright magic dissipating
from her clothes. No, these weren’t her clothes anymore: they were his. A deep
royal blue was covering her body, the princely attire punctuated by the cape
hanging off her shoulders. The only difference she could find was on her hips:
she was fairly sure he hadn’t been wearing a skirt, let alone a pleated one.
But she didn’t care about that now.
Instead, Kayo stared down at the sword in her hand, its hilt composed of
twisted ornate gold. The weapon was humming in her hand, like a comforting
voice vibrating in her ears. But most importantly, it was warm. Warm in a way
that metal and steel could never be: like it was alive and breathing against
her skin. She’d never held the blade before, but she knew this feeling. She had
known it all her life.
She caught her own reflection on the blade. “… Satoru?”
“Kayo!”
She snapped her head up, and barely managed to dive out of the way of the
charging monster. It was faster than its large, grotesque body would suggest;
one of its limbs still managed to graze her, and Kayo hit the floor with a
pained grunt, rolling with the impact until she crashed against a restaurant’s
overturned patio furniture. Her throat swallowed the small groan that risked
escaping; Kayo was used to pain. As she sat up, she realized that a certain
blond cat had already rushed to her side, eyes narrowed into a scowl. “He
really is a bad influence on you.”
She unsteadily pushed herself to her feet, wincing silently to herself. “If
we’re going to do this, let’s try not to get you killed,” Kenya growled, his
paws planted on the ground next to her ankles. They both watched as the beast
picked itself back up, its head lolling limply around until it found them
again. The captain’s back arched defensively. “Do you know what to do,
Hinazuki?”
“Yeah,” she whispered, her skinned knees bending and bracing for battle. This
knowledge—these fighting instincts—they weren’t her own, she knew that. But
somehow, they were second-nature to her: her grip on the hilt was tight and
comfortable, despite her uncalloused hands. Satoru’s expertise was washing into
her with every breath, and she consumed it all, drinking in every battle he’d
ever fought. “I have to stab the core, right?”
“Right,” Kenya answered. “Do you see it?”
When that bright red gaze turned to her, Kayo instinctively knew the answer.
“It’s in his eyes.”
He nodded. “Break the core, and the magic stops.”
She crouched down low, her eyes never leaving the enemy. “Watch Sugita-kun for
me.”
“I will,” he promised, bounding away from the incoming fight and towards Kayo’s
unconscious classmate. She wasn’t going to risk either of them getting hurt:
there was no way she would let Yashiro’s monster get close to Kenya or Sugita.
So she dashed: her legs moved with a strength that wasn’t hers, cutting across
the square and away from potential casualties. The creature swiftly gave chase,
its arachnid legs scraping and scrambling across the pavement.
“G-give it b-b-b-back!” it roared. “N-need it, he needs it, t-the th-thread—!”
It reached her in an instant, one of its arms swiping down in an arch to smear
her across the sidewalk. Kayo side-stepped it, feeling the asphalt shatter
where she stood just a second ago; bits of stone flew into the air from the
impact, shards grazing across her face. She closed her eyes and dove forwards,
towards that rotting limb.
The tip of her blade cut the flesh like butter, amputating the arm at the wrist
with a splatter of mottled black. When it splashed across her face, smearing
its rotting ink across her skin, Kayo realized the blood was cold.
The creature let out a high-pitched, wounded cry, instantly recoiling away from
the weapon. Kayo wasn’t going to let him: she lurched forward, determined not
to give it any quarter. The fiend’s reach was immense, but its body was swollen
and round; her best choice was to stay close, where it might struggle to get a
hit. Those arms and legs were the problem—despite their gangly appearance, she
had seen the power in them the moment they slammed Sugita into the ground. If
one of them got her, she might not get back up.
Which meant they had to go. Kayo whirled around to meet every claw that came
her away, her sword burying itself in the demon’s flesh and bone. With every
swipe, she watched fingers and knuckles come undone; tendons were rent in two,
again and again and again. One by one, she cut the heads off this hydra: her
breath came out in pained gasps in her chest, every inhale bringing with it the
taste of decay, lingering in the air. Kayo knew she was drenched in its fluid,
feeling the fabric sticking against her skin; she tried to ignore the way
Satoru’s royal garb was slowly being soaked in Yashiro’s colour.
She quickly wiped some of the ichor out of her eye, and an instant too late,
saw mangled fingers coming for her from above, prepared to knock her head off
her shoulders with one clean swipe. For a second, she froze, until a voice
spoke from the weapon clutched in her right hand.
Duck.
She did, feeling the sagging skin pass dangerously close to the crown of her
head, heartbeat pounding in her ears. “Thanks,” she whispered, before dodging
one of those deathly sharp spider legs. The hard, pointed foot had speared the
floor, embedding itself deep in the stone: Kayo raised the sole of her boot to
meet it, smashing her heel into the exoskeleton and hearing it snap with a
sickening crack.
Together, remember?
“Together,” she echoed, watching as the enemy crumpled before her, no longer
able to support its own weight. It fell to the only limbs it had left: its
human knees, the gore and monstrosity cut away from his frame by Kayo’s hand.
Chunks of Yashiro’s influence were still there—stumps where there shouldn’t be,
pulsing and leaking. Yet still, its weak and trembling arms reached out for
her, its throat wheezing and heaving like a dying man—and maybe he was.
Kayo pursed her lips into a tight line, raising her sword to hover above his
head. She tightened her grip, her slick and wet fingers shaking against the
hilt.
It’s okay,Satoru’s voice promised against her palm.Everything’s going to be
alright.
She nodded to herself, steeling her resolve for what had to come. The infected
man stared up at her with desperate eyes, his hands twitching with need. “G-g-
give us—thread—!”
It was exactly the incentive she needed.
With a heave, she surged forward, and pierced her weapon straight through his
left eye.
Kayo felt her every inch as her blade pushed farther and farther into his
skull. There was no human blood, here; only more of that sick, congealing
darkness, pouring out around her sword. She grunted through her grit teeth as
she pushed more, harder,until she felt the metal collide with something hard.
It was stronger, sharper than bone; after a moment, she could feel that
something shattering against the tip of her sword.
She forced herself to swallow down the bile that threatened to surge out of her
throat, tugging the steel loose from the man’s brain and bone. His limp body
fell forward against the ground, fingers still twitching in the dirt.
She took a couple of tentative steps backwards, holding her bloodied blade in
front of her, ready to strike.
After a couple of heartbeats, she watched as the magic began to wither away.
The demon limbs began to shrivel before her eyes, like an infection suddenly
dying from the inside. It wasted away until it was nothing more than a husk,
finally crumbling into a dark, ash-like dust. Only then did the human colour
seem to seep back into the man’s body, and Kayo held her own breath until she
heard a choked, pained inhale from the victim at her feet.
The tension fled out of her muscles, and Kayo staggered, suddenly hit by a
deep, heavy fatigue. With a quiet burst, the royal uniform and the blade
scattered into pinpricks of light, leaving her school clothes
fluttering—unstained and unblemished—fluttering off her frame. Quickly, the
magic settled back underneath her skin. She resisted the urge to hum with
contentment as she felt Satoru’s soul resinking back into its rightful place,
his warmth curling in her chest.
She spared one last look down at the man Yashiro’s magic had possessed, guilt
nibbling away at her. As always, the Prince was there, offering soft assurances
of his wound is already healingand you saved his life.Kayo took a deep breath
as she reveled in his comfort, before slowly turning around, her tired and
aching muscles resisting every movement.
Kenya was watching her intently, still diligently standing by Sugita’s side.
Step by agonizing step, she crossed the square, her body swaying and
threatening collapse. Kayo bit her tongue and focused on making it across the
distance, feeling Satoru’s formless touch on her shoulders, as if trying to
keep her steady. Knowing that she wasn’t making the trek alone was all she
needed to get to the other side, finally falling to her knees beside the
captain and classmate alike.
For a second, she just caught her breath, her eyes catching Kenya’s gaze. The
cat’s feline features softened then, his voice tinged with just the slightest
bit of pride. “You fought well, Hinazuki.”
Kayo offered him a weary smile in thanks, sitting on her heels as she looked
down at the unconscious boy. “How is he?”
“He will be fine,” Kenya assured him. “With rest, I predict he will be back in
form in a day or two.”
Relief flooded her veins, and she nodded again. Sugita was an intrusive aspect
in Kayo’s life, but he was never unkind. Everything he did came from a place of
caring and concern, even if it gave Kayo a strange feeling in her stomach. He
didn’t deserve to be maimed or killed at the hands of one of Yashiro’s beasts.
No one did.
She turned her head, to stare at the prone monster made man. “There will be
more of them, won’t there?”
Kenya watched her face for a moment, before following her stare. “Yes. Yashiro
will not stop until he has everything he needs to seize the throne.”
She seemed to consider this, not turning back to the cat as she spoke. “I don’t
really care about the Ishikari Kingdom,” she admitted. But with every syllable
she could feel her resolve strengthening, the Prince’s warmth finally igniting
into a fire in her bones. It wasn’t wild, but it was intense in the way only
controlled fury could be. There was a flame in her eyes as she turned to look
at Kenya, tone resolute and unwavering.
“But I won’t let him have Satoru. No matter what.”
 
 
Somewhere far, tucked in a cleave between worlds, down in the deep and the dark
and the void, a finger was tapping.
The man moved through the empty halls like a ghost, his feet stepping
soundlessly across the black marble floors. A small smile was sitting on his
lips, reflected on the surface of the lacquer wooden box balanced in his palms.
His finger tapped at the exterior again, the sound bouncing off the dark
crystals that made up the walls of this stronghold.
He made his way with practiced and ceremonial dedication, his back straight and
shoulders broad. The paths were like a maze, and he enjoyed it that way; these
chambers were a labyrinth of his own design, a tangled web of passages that
only he could navigate. After the final turn, his smile imperceptibly widened,
striding with purpose towards the large double-doors.
They parted for him obligingly, their stone facades screeching against the
polished ground. Yashiro didn’t stop as he marched through, listening to the
loud and soothing sound of the doors slammed shut in his wake. He gave a slow
and steady inhale, basking in this, his favourite of places, before stepping up
to the altar in the centre of the room.
Satoru hadn’t moved. Of course not.
The prince was still lying as Yashiro left him, his body resting on the plush
pillows that covered the stone pedestal. Save for the steady rising and falling
of his chest, not a single muscle had budged. His hands were still folded
comfortably atop his torso, his lips ever so slightly parted in sleep. Despite
the fifteen years it had been since that day, the teenager hadn’t aged a
minute, his body suspended beyond time. Yashiro smiled down at his slumbering
charge, before setting the box gently down on the edge of the table.
“The fiend I sent to Earth was destroyed,” he said quietly, unlatching the
box’s small clasp. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you,
Satoru?”
The young royal didn’t respond, but Yashiro hadn’t expected him to. Gently, he
opened the lid, staring down at the small item contained within. The gemstone
was a brilliant red, glinting dangerously in the low light of the room. “Well,”
he conceded, clutching the ruby in his fist. “I expected nothing less of you.”
Yashiro took a moment in indulge in the memory: to bask in the smell of
Ishikari burning, his magic far-reaching and all-consuming, practically aflame
in his veins. It was so palatable that he could taste that victory on his
tongue even now, like ash and copper. But more than anything, he could still
see those eyes, narrowed and glowing blue among the smoke. Challenging him,
defyinghim—even if it meant tearing himself apart.
The man gave a shaky sigh, slowly uncurling his grip on the gem. It was glowing
darkly, a sickly bloody crimson that bathed them both in its light. “Tell me,
Satoru,” he began, moving to press the stone to the boy’s forehead. “Where I
can find you again.”
The reaction was instant the moment the magic touched his skin, the prince’s
face contorting in suffering. His even breaths hitched and quickened, a short
and quiet cry barely escaping his throat. His back arched and fingers twitched,
fighting the pain. Yashiro could feel his smile widening into a grin at the
sight, but he didn’t dare speak: not when those catatonic lips were moving, the
syllables practically ripped off his tongue.
“K-Kayo…”
Immediately he withdrew the ruby, extinguishing the magic before dropping the
tool back into its box. Satoru’s sweat-soaked face was gently returning to its
impassive state, his body melting back into the pillows. Softly, Yashiro
reached down to adjust the bangs that had tumbled in front of his closed eyes,
leaning down until his breath was beating against the boy’s skin.
“Kayo, was it?” he repeated with a pleased hum, gently tucking a strand behind
his ear. “Don’t worry. I promise—you shall be whole again soon.”
He straightened his spine then, a manic grin stretching across his face as he
took in his prisoner.
“And then, we will finish what we started, your highness.”
 
 
***** Yashisato, no rooftop scene *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt located on tumblr here.
     Also written for Day 1 of YashiSatoKen Week on tumblr.
Today.
Yashiro made the promise to himself as dragged the knife under the apple’s
skin, separating peel from wet flesh. Repeated it as the crimson unfurled into
long ribbon, following his blade. Mouthed that word silently to himself with an
imperceptible smile, like a secret joke for his ears alone. Briefly, he looked
over his working fingers to the young man sitting in the bed. The boy wasn’t
looking back; he leaned against the hospital bed, face turned away and staring
out the window, at the setting sun. The orange hues were playing in his dark
hair, and Yashiro forced his gaze away from the sight, careful not to let his
fingers slip against the blade.
The void in his heart still whispered within his chest, its breath quiet and
cold, beating against his heart.  
After fifteen long, tortuous years—Yashiro will finish what he started.
Today, he would kill Fujinuma Satoru.
The pledge thrummed through his blood, breathing in his veins. It pooled under
his ribs, filling the hole that had been burrowed deep in his very being.
Yashiro had stilled the spark in Satoru’s eyes, but it wasn’t enough, never
enough.The boy had left his own scars on Yashiro’s soul, scratched in with
determined eyes and hoarse screams. And no matter how hard he tried, no matter
how much he raged—no matter how close he came, his hands creeping towards some
child’s neck, their gaze wide and fading—ever since that night, Yashiro
couldn’t get that voice out of his ears.
He had spent countless days staring blankly at the walls of his home, trying to
pin this feeling down to a time, a place, a name. Searching for an answer
deeper, more meaningful than a simple eleven-year-old boy who refused to die.
Something nobler than memories of hamsters, gasping and struggling for their
final breaths. But the peeling paint offered no new answers; none beyond the
one he already knew.
All this time, they had both been frozen—suspended beyond the years, unable to
take a single step. Damned by each other to a non-existence, floating aimlessly
and empty through time.
But that would change, today.
Finally reaching the end, Yashiro gave a short flick of his wrist, watching the
apple peel fall into the hospital trashcan. Fruit were much easier to deal with
than people. Much less whining. “Are you hungry, Satoru?”
His former student finally turned to look back at him, his expression fixed and
unreadable. And Yashiro had to admit it was—strange. Of course, the boy had
been reserved ever since he woke up a month ago, still struggling to adjust to
the world he found himself in. But despite that, Satoru had always been talking
openly. Speaking slowly, admittedly, always the slightest bit unsure—but eager
to learn. Desperate to fill the gaps in his empty memory.
But now, he was strangely silent, and simply watched as Yashiro cut the apple
into slices. In a moment of spontaneity, he gently carved grooves into the
pieces, sculpting little ears with his knife. They almost looked like rabbits.
He finished by spearing each one through the spine with a toothpick, juice
weeping out of the wound. Finally satisfied, he the plate down on the small
night table next to the hospital bed, repeating: “Satoru?”
His former student stared at the snack for a long moment, before his blue eyes
trailed up to meet black. Yashiro felt a shiver of electricity slowly crawling
down his spine. There was something hard and sharp in that look, and Yashiro
had the distinct feeling that he was being dragged, pulled by an undertow he
couldn’t escape.
(It surged his senses, drowning him in memories of a cold night, a dark car, a
light snowfall. Back to two eyes glaring at him from the passenger seat, hands
grasping at a buckle that wouldn’t give way. He couldn’t resist swallowing it
down, letting it rush into his lungs; Yashiro wanted to taste it all—all of
him, everything he had—on his tongue. Wanted it to flood his very being, until
he couldn’t even breathe; until all he could do is choke and drown, sinking
into the deep and the dark below.)
It felt like an eternity before Satoru spoke, his voice determined in a way
Yashiro had only heard once before.
“I call it Revival.”
Yashiro raised an eyebrow, wiping his sticky palms clean with a handkerchief.
“When I fail to save someone,” Satoru continued, staring his former teacher in
the eye. “I get a chance to go back in time. And fix it.”
Yashiro broke the trance with a short laugh to himself, a bead of sweat
trickling down the back of his neck. “Is this one of those manga ideas of
yours?” He’d seen Satoru’s sketchbook lying about—and more than once, Yashiro
had caught a glimpse of a sketch or two. There was a theme to them: always a
hero, poised for battle against some unseen enemy, standing determined and
tall.
He could see that same expression in Satoru’s face now: his eyes were narrowed
and resolute, delicate body tense and braced for war. But still, he did not
move, never taking his gaze off the older man’s face. He only sat there, the
heart monitor at his side betraying the steady and nervous rising of his pulse.
“No. It’s an explanation.”
“For?”
Satoru’s hands curled into fists in his sheets, and his expression flickered
into something uncertain. The boy was hovering over the precipice of some
decision, but as quickly as it was there, it was gone; his fingers untangled
themselves, his lips moving without stutter.
“How I know you plan on switching Kumi’s medicine before her surgery,” he
replied. “And how I know you want to throw me off the rooftop for it.”
Yashiro’s breath froze in his lungs.
He stared down at the—fragile, broken, weak—person in front of him, the one who
stared up at him with undaunted eyes. Yashiro could feel the prickle of snow
against his skin, could practically hear the quiet rush of the river in his
ears. Around him the hospital room fell away, its walls collapsing like cheap
cardboard; it was just the two of them again, with Satoru’s bed teetering on
the snow bank, mere inches from the water’s edge.
You could do it now,a part of his mind offered. His gloved hands clenched into
fists at his sides before relaxing, fingers unfurling without the slightest
tremor. He still had the knife he’d used to cut the apple. It would only take a
single cut, only the briefest of struggles, one slash before that beautiful
streak of red—
Satoru leaned back against the raised end of the bed, his shoulders slumping as
his exhausted body sank into the pillows. He looked back at his attempted
killer with a guarded look, seemingly unaffected by the murderer’s sudden
silence.
“I told you,” he offered. “I know your future, Yashiro.”
He could feel his whole body tense at the familiar words, his heartbeat
quickening in his chest.
A part of Yashiro had hoped for this moment. Ever since Satoru had opened his
eyes, he found fantasies playing like a film reel in his head: imagining the
moment of recollection, when the memories would flood back to Satoru like
winter water. He could feel his body flush with adrenaline as he stepped up to
the bed, gripping the cot’s metal railing with one hand as the other clutched
the fabric of Satoru’s hospital gown.
“Is that what you meant?” he demanded, his voice low and face twisted into a
grin. He could feel his fist shaking, trembling with something like raptureas
he heaved the younger man up by the collar. Satoru gave a choked noise of
surprise as he was wrenched painfully upright, both his hands flying to grasp
at Yashiro’s wrist. But he still pulled them closer, until their faces were
tantalizingly close, until he could see his own frenzied expression reflected
in Satoru’s wide and vaguely panicked eyes. “That you could see my future with
this ‘Revival’ of yours?”
Those blue eyes narrowed into something almost—challenging,his hoarse and
throttled voice coming out surprisingly steady, despite the murderer holding
him by the neck. “Yes.”
Yashiro didn’t recognize the sound that splintered past his lips, dry and
cracking in his throat. Not until his shoulders were shuddering and his chest
heaving, Satoru’s eyebrows furrowing in confusion. But the laughter was making
his whole body convulse, until he could no longer keep his grip, suddenly
dropping Spice back against the bed.
It was so—so impossibly insane,and yet—
It made too much sense. Satoru had always managed to keep one step ahead, far
beyond the capabilities of someone his age; had managed to identify Yashiro’s
victims and insulate them, leading them by the hand to somewhere Yashiro
couldn’t reach. Had rushed forward with such reckless abandon, because
heknewwhat would happen if he didn’t. Because he had seen that future with his
own two eyes.
To think, the answer Yashiro had been craving all these years could be so
absolutely absurd. It felt like some kind of divine joke, and he couldn’t
resist laughing along with it.
“You think I’m insane,” Satoru accused, forcing himself up on his elbows.
“Oh, Spice,” Yashiro sighed happily, a long smile painted across his face.
“Quite the opposite.”
For a second, a flicker of something—surprise, understanding, relief—flashed
across Satoru’s face. The boy parted his lips to speak, but never got the
chance. Spice snapped his mouth closed the second he heard the sound of the
doorknob twisting in the frame. Both of them turned to face the nurse that was
now hovering in the doorway, a clipboard pressed against her chest.
She stopped for a second, her eyes briefly moving between the two of them,
before settling on the older man. “Nishizono-san,” she started. “I’m afraid
Fujinuma-san’s visiting hours are ending.”
“Ah,” Yashiro said to himself, wrapping himself in the familiar guise of
Nishizono Manabu: bereaved widower, dutiful mentor, respected politician. To
that end, he pushed his sleeve back and stared at the watch on his wrist—a gift
from his long-deceased wife, engraved with their anniversary—and feigned
surprise at the time. “So late already. I apologize for keeping you, Satoru.”
Spice stared at him for a long moment as he settled himself back against his
pillows. “It’s no problem, sensei.”
The word sent a pleased shiver through Yashiro’s bones, and he could feel the
corners of his lips twitching up again. He forced himself to reign it back, to
keep the smile within the realm of distant, paternal affection. “I’ll see you
tomorrow, then.”
Satoru’s heart monitor jumped for a brief moment—but then it settled back into
that slow, monotonous beeping. “I look forward to it.”
Yashiro bit his cheek to keep from laughing out again. So resolute. It was
endearing, if not adorable. He quickly gathered his things—his coat, his hat,
his gloves—and gave one more brief nod to his victim, still trapped in his
hospital bed. Then, with one last look at the nurse as he passed, Yashiro
slipped out the door.
That “today” could wait.
 
 
Satoru was oddly comfortable with the man who tried to kill him.
Yashiro had returned the next day, as promised, strolling into Satoru’s
hospital room in the late morning with a hot chocolate in hand. The younger man
blinked up at him, apparently off-guard but ultimately unsurprised. They didn’t
offer each other any hellos or small-talk; Yashiro didn’t even remove his
gloves as he crossed the linoleum tile, his shoes clicking against the floor.
He stopped beside the bed with a sweet smile and his arm extended, holding the
cup out to his victim in unspoken offering.
“Let’s go for a walk, Satoru.”
Those blue eyes watched him for a moment, before giving a small sigh through
his nose and wrapping his fingers around the styrofoam. “My wheelchair’s in the
closet.”
Yashiro gently helped manoeuver him into the seat, gripping his thin shoulders
and slipping his arm under his knees. Once settled, he got to work draping
blankets over his bony limbs. The entire time, Satoru just watched him: watched
his fingers with a sharp and dutiful awareness, but without ever pulling away,
not so much as lifting a hand in his own defense. His fingers remained
(tightly) curled around the hot cocoa, steam rising from the hole in the lid.
Yashiro wasn’t quite sure what he had expected. Satoru clearly remembered who
he was, what he had tried to do. And while there was some nervousness, a
tension in his weak muscles whenever they got too close for comfort, Spice
didn’t seem particularly afraid. Didn’t balk at the idea of being taken out of
the safety of this room, where nurses and doctors (witnesses) were only a
button press away. Yashiro considered this as he adjusted the thick fabric
around Satoru’s shoulders, pausing to make sure his legs were thoroughly
protected from the cold outside.
Satoru gave a quiet mutter of thanks against the lip of his drink. Yashiro
settled behind him and gripped the handles of the wheelchair, and began to
move, both of them lapsing into silence once more. They moved through the halls
of the hospital like ghosts, slipping in and out of the elevators undetected.
Unseen.
(You could do it now. You could. So easy, so simple—)
The quiet lasted until the sliding doors to the courtyard opened, the chill of
autumn meeting their skin. Spice immediately stiffened, his fragile body giving
a short shiver at the sudden change of temperature. So Yashiro waited for a
couple of seconds, allowing Satoru to weakly adjust the blankets around his
frame. Only once the younger man had settled back, apparently warm, did he push
forward, rolling out beyond the building.
The world was crisp in the way it could only be in the autumn, the air brisk in
his lungs. The trees were starting to lose their leaves, half of them already
standing empty and bare; the fallen tumbled across the ground, whisked away by
the wind. There was a sharp crunching under the wheels as they rolled down the
paths. It was the only sound either of them made for a couple of minutes,
neither of them betraying the quiet truce between them.
Yashiro eventually broke the silence first, not breaking stride as he spoke.
“Did you know who I was that day, Satoru?”
The younger man didn’t turn around, his voice steady and soft. “In the car?” he
asked, and Yashiro gave a small hum of affirmation. “No, I didn’t. I only knew
there was a killer somewhere in town.”
No small bit of pride spread through Yashiro’s bones. Even a time traveller
wasn’t enough to catch him, in the end. But more than anything, he was
relieved—he didn’t know what he would do, if it turned out that entire night
had just been some elaborate ruse. If Satoru had willingly fallen on that
sword, into that river, like some sort of martyr being led to the slaughter.
The thought alone had kept him awake all night, pacing and staring wild-eyed at
the walls of his home. If that moment had been a lie, then—
But it wasn’t. So Yashiro let the tension seep out of his shoulders, saying
simply: “I see.”
They continued to roll along the paths, and Yashiro watched some distant
visitors scurry back inside, shoulders hunched against the cold. The chill was
prickling at his own face, the tip of his nose and his cheeks tingling at the
temperature.
“You said knew about my plan to kill Kumi.” (And you, his mind added.) “I take
it that means I succeeded.”
“No. You didn’t.”
Yashiro’s feet slowed to a stop, the leaves crunching underfoot.
Satoru had long since set aside his empty cup, letting it sit forgotten against
his lap. Now his hands sat folded on each other, seeking heat in vain,
fingertips turning steadily red from the chill. But he continued unperturbed,
muttering: “I caught you, actually. The first time.”
First time?
“I didn’t get it,” Satoru admitted. “I had beaten you. Saved everyone. But when
I watched them take you away in handcuffs, it all just reset again.”
Spice leaned his head back, eyes closing for a moment before turning his gaze
upwards, to the sky. “So I tried again and again. Dozens of times,” he
muttered, the words fogging as they left his lips. “It didn’t matter. Revival
always sent me back.”
A short laugh escaped Satoru’s lips, but there was no humour in it. “I even
thought, ‘maybe he is supposed to kill me.’” Yashiro’s grip tightened, the
leather of his gloves crying out against the metal. “So I let you. But that
didn’t work, either.”
Something about the idea of Satoru—beaten down, discouraged, with nothing left
but the will to accept his fate at Yashiro’s hands—was so inherently wrongit
stirred some part of him into a petty rage.It felt like a cheap victory, a
consolation prize, an insult; Yashiro could feel his eyes narrowing at the mere
idea, his breath hissing past his clenched teeth. There was no point to Spice
if he wasn’t fighting back, treading water against the inevitable. (Defying
history, as the case may be.)
“I helped Kayo, Hiromi, Aya, Kumi—even my mother. But it wasn’t enough,” Satoru
continued. “I kept asking myself who I hadn’t saved. Who I was leaving behind.”
He paused, letting his eyes flutter closed again. “I can’t believe it took me
so long to figure it out.”
Yashiro forced himself to keep still, to keep breathing, memorizing the way
Satoru’s hair moved in the breeze. Dark threads tangling for an instant, before
settling against the nape of a slim, fragile neck. You still can. It’s not too
late. You can still—
“If I had only stopped and thought about it, the answer would have been
obvious,” the younger man said. “The murders were just a symptom of the
problem. Not the cause.”
He glared down at the back of his victim’s head, his grip on the wheelchair
painfully tight. “What are you saying, Satoru?”
Finally, Spice turned to face him, the black of Yashiro’s eyes meeting clear,
unobstructed blue.
“That I’m here to save you, Yashiro Gaku.”
***** Kensato, original timeline *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt located on tumblr here.
     Written for YashiSatoKen Week on tumblr.
Satoru hated delivering to university dorms.
The whole process was annoying from start to finish. People walked across the
campus without any awareness of their surroundings, criss-crossing the road and
forcing him to constantly slow down or break. Plus, finding the right building
was always more trouble than it was worth, often forcing him to circle around
until he found the public entrance. And even then, he usually had to wait to be
buzzed in, before beginning to navigate the labyrinth of hallways to the right
room.
Also, students were horribletippers.
And it didn’t help that Satoru was carrying enough pizza to feed a small army.
He glared over the box at the top of the stack, the smell of processed cheese
and pepperoni assaulting his nose. If he could have his way, Satoru would just
leave the food in some anonymous doorway, hop on his scooter and drive home.
Maybe pick up something hot at the convenience store and take a long, warm
bath. Spend the night with his headphones in his ears and his pencil in hand.
But as much as he hated to admit it, Satoru generally enjoyed being employed
and having a roof over his head. So he trudged through the hall, glaring at the
gaggles of twenty-somethings that passed him by, talking loudly amongst
themselves. They were basically his age, but they all looked like kids to him:
stupidly innocent and endlessly obnoxious. They reminded him too much of
Hir—Airi, and he grit his teeth, picking up his pace. The sooner he was out of
here, the better.
He only stopped when he spied the numbers he was looking for, giving an
irritated sigh through his nose. With a grunt, Satoru braced the boxes between
himself and the doorframe, fishing a slip of paper out of his pocket. He
checked the name one more time, before raising a hand to knock loudly at the
wood.
The door swung open, and immediately the sound of chatter met his ears. Satoru
could feel his eyebrow twitching at the racket, and for once, he was thankful
for the helmet that pushed his bangs flat against his forehead. He held the
food out to the man in the entryway, grunting: “Delivery for Kobayashi.”
“That’s me,” the blond said, gratefully accepting the boxes. “How much do I owe
you?”
With his hands free, Satoru looked down at the slip again. “3700 yen.”
The student set the pizzas down on a small table by the door before fishing his
wallet out of his pocket. As he counted out the money, Satoru killed time by
slipping his hands into his pockets and pretending to be literally anywhere
else. He let his eyes trail lazily around his surroundings. There were at least
four more students crowded around a low table beyond the entryway, all of them
hunched over textbooks and papers. Some sort of study session, then.
The customer finally held out the bills. Eager to leave, Satoru took them in
hand, already turning to go. He stopped when he realized the blond was still
gripping the money, refusing to let go; Satoru frowned, looking up to meet a
pair of confused brown eyes.
“Hey,” the student started. “Have we… met before?”
Definitely not.Satoru just stared at him, hoping his disinterest would come
across as politely as possible as he tried to take the money again with a small
tug. “I don’t think so.”
“No,” the stranger muttered, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I’m sure we have.”
One of the students inside leaned back on his hands, calling towards the front
door. “Oi, Kenya, you almost done? I’m starving!”
Satoru paused, his fingers curling tightly around the paper in his fingers.
Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Kobayashi.
KenyaKobayashi.
All at once, Satoru could feel the wall between himself and the past starting
to crumble under his skin, cracks forming in the foundation. The rubble settled
heavily against his lungs, suddenly squeezing the air out of his chest. All he
could think of was the hideout—where they’d laughed, played games, where
someone had taken Hiromi and strangledthe breath out of his little throat.
Satoru closed his eyes, trying to drown the memories he’d tried so hard to
bury; tried not remember how Hiromi’s body had been carried out of their secret
base, covered in a plastic sheet because—that was wrongbecause—because he was
always scared to go there alone why weren’t you there—
Too roughly, he yanked the money out of the other man’s grip. Satoru barely
caught the surprise in the student’s eyes before he began to escape down the
halls, pulling his helmet further down against his face. His feet were meeting
the floor, but he didn’t feel it; his entire body felt like a cloud, separate
from the frantic beating of his pulse. Satoru forced himself to think about
breathing, to keep the past from dragging him down, but—
But already he could see a red coat standing alone under a lamppost, eyes
distant, thighs bruised—
You could have done something.
This was fine. He was fine.
But you didn’t. Wasn’t he your friend? Wasn’t she your neighbour?
He just needed some air.
Didn’t you want to be a hero?
For a second, he thought he’d made it; the exit was right there, his scooter
parked just beyond the glass doors. But then he felt fingers clasping at his
wrist, pulling him to a sudden and abrupt stop. He refused to look back—never
look back, never look too close, don’t remember—
 “… Satoru?”
He shut his eyes tight and clenched his jaw, but said nothing. Felt his hands
curl into fists, the money crumpling against his palm. For a second, the person
behind him didn’t say anything; he just held on, as if something was going to
disappear the moment he let go. Satoru wished he would.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” the voice asked, slowly stepping closer to the delivery
man. “Satoru Fujinuma.”
Slowly, he half-turned to face at his childhood classmate, his lips pulled into
a tense line. “Hey, Kenya.”
Kenya’s mouth parted slightly, staring intensely, his eyes darting across
Satoru’s face. “I—” he started, gently easing his grip without letting go. “I
haven’t seen you since elementary school.” Something dark, almost melancholy
seemed to slip into those brown eyes, his face tensing around the edges as his
voice dipped to a whisper. “You just—disappeared. After graduation.”
Satoru stared down at his wrist, still trapped in Kenya’s hand. He’d wantedto
disappear. His mother had suggested transferring to a different school
district—a change of pace,she’d called it, meet some new faces—and he’d
accepted without argument. Didn’t tell anyone he wasn’t following the rest of
them to Mikoto Middle School. He could vaguely remember hands knocking on front
door, the voice of the other boy calling his name. Satoru remembered slipping
headphones over his ears, blocking it out with the familiar sounds of Wonder
Guy. Listening to the theme music on full blast, until Kenya eventually stopped
knocking.
Satoru started suddenly, roughly pulling his shaking hand free. “I wasn’t the
only one, was I.”
It was cruel, and he knew that the instant he saw the pure hurtflash in Kenya’s
eyes. But even that pain seemed to rectify itself, find itself into something
more—understanding. No, that wasn’t quite right; Satoru could identify
something in that look, something like pity.It made his stomach tighten, his
anxiety suddenly sparking into a thinly-veiled disdain.
Kenya’s hand was still hovering in mid-air, his fingers curling in one
themselves. “Get coffee with me.”
He stared at Kenya through his bangs, eyes narrowed. Frankly, the blond had
grown up exactly the way Satoru would have predicted he would: tall, thin
without being lanky, attending a prestigious university and admired by his
peers. Probably had great grades, too. Kenya had continued on the railroad of
his life, unperturbed, uninterrupted, as if—
As if nothing had happened. Like it didn’t matter.
“No,” Satoru snapped, turning to go. He pushed his way out into the parking
lot, zipping his jacket back up to his neck. He’d hoped that would be the end
of it, but he could hear Kenya’s footsteps resolutely following after him,
chasing him across the asphalt.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know if you noticed,” Satoru said, glaring as he swung his leg over
his scooter. “But I’m working.”
Kenya watched as Satoru kicked the bike to life, the metal jumping to action
between his thighs. Before he had a chance to drive off, the Kenya was there:
standing in front of his bike, hunched over the front wheel and clutching
Satoru’s handlebars. There was a determined look in his eyes, his knuckles
steadily turning white as he leaned in. “Tomorrow, then.”
At this point, Satoru just wanted to get the hell out of there. His fingers
were still shuddering in a way he couldn’t blame on the chill in the air; not
when it was almost May, the hot sun beating down on his back. “Fine,” he
muttered. “Can I leave now?”
His childhood friend scrutinized his face for a second. He didn’t know what
Kenya was hoping to find, and Satoru dropped his gaze, opting to stare at the
collar of the other man’s shirt. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see
Kenya slowly removing his hands and stepping out of the way. Satoru didn’t
spare him a glance before pulling his feet off the ground and speeding out of
the parking lot, the tires screeching in his wake.
If he had it his way, he never would see Kenya Kobayashi again.
 
 
Except that Satoru forgot that Kenya knew where he worked.
A fact that became horribly clear the moment he saw the blond standing in the
lobby of OasiPizza the next day, chatting amicably with one Katagiri Airi.
For a second, Satoru seriously considered slipping out the emergency exit in
the back. His shift was over, and he’d already signed out; there was no reason
for him to stick around. He’d be long gone, and neither of them would be the
wiser. Satoru wasn’t particularly in shape, but he could probably book it for a
block or two, at least. Far enough to get away from the two particularly
persistent thorns in his side.
He also forgot that Kenya was frustratingly observant, and almost immediately
spotted him. The student’s entire body seemed to rise to attention, raising a
hand in greeting. “Hey, Satoru.”
He could feel his shoulders tightening defensively, glaring as he pulled the
door to the employee’s lounge closed behind him. “What are you doing here,
Kenya?”
“Coffee,” Kenya replied with a small smile. His face looked calm, confident;
nothing like his fingers, teasing at the strap of his bag, anxiously gripping
and releasing the leather.
Satoru stared at his old classmate blankly, before pushing his way past him
without stopping or sparing the blond a glance. “I have plans.”
Now it was Airi’s turn to interject, tilting her head. “No you don’t.”
Traitor.“I do.”
This time she bypassed him completely, turning to Kenya and offering a
sympathetic glance. “He really doesn’t.”
“Katagiri!”
Kenya gave her a thankful smile before stepping back up to Satoru, his hands
slipping into the pockets of his blazer. “Come on. There’s a great café just
around the corner,” he said, gently nudging Satoru’s shoulder with his own. “My
treat.”
It was an awkward attempt at intimacy, and Satoru wanted to snap that they
hadn’t seen each other in over ten years, that they weren’t kids anymore,
that—that Kenya had no right to come here and revive the past. He bit his
tongue instead, leaning away from the touch. That communicated enough, judging
by the way the other man’s face twisted for a moment, before it was gone. Like
everything else, Satoru ignored it.
The mangaka—want-to-be mangaka,his mind corrected bitterly—glared past Kenya’s
shoulder, to the high schooler beaming at him from the cash register. There was
a hidden threat in Airi’s exuberance, a mild warning in the way her fingers
drummed against the countertop. If Satoru rejected Kenya now, he’d be hearing
about it every day for weeks, if not months. He briefly weighed his options,
trying to ascertain which one was the lesser of the two evils. Then he turned
to Kenya’s tentatively, anxiously hopeful face, and Satoru’s shoulders slumped
in defeat.
“Fine.”
Airi grinned from her spot behind the counter, practically glowing as she waved
them off. “Have fun, Fujinuma-san! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Which Satoru was sure is Airi-speak for we are absolutely talking about this
tomorrow.So he ignored it, giving her an exasperated glare as he trudged out
onto the sidewalk. The blond followed after him, motioning down the street with
a soft smile. “It’s just this way.”
At least Kenya was right: it was close. Once they made it to the door, Satoru
realized he’d passed by this café almost every day since he started working at
OasiPizza, though he’d never gone inside. Satoru watched the back of Kenya’s
head as the blond moved up to the counter, greeting the barista warmly. He’d
probably been here dozens of times; Satoru vaguely wondered how often he’d
walked by when Kenya was sitting inside, sipping his coffee and studying.
Said student looked over his shoulder with a smile. “What would you like?”
Satoru looked up at the menu, saw the long strings of katakana and immediately
gave up, looking back down at Kenya. “Just normal coffee. With milk.”
True to his word, Kenya paid for them both—he’s studying and you’re working,
you know—and with cups in hand, they settled into some seats by the window.
This place was small, but even Satoru had to admit it was… warm. Quiet. If he
were alone, he might have even found it comfortable.
But he wasn’t. Satoru stared across the table at Kenya, watching the light play
in his pale hair. The man stirred something into his drink, the small spoon
clinking against the porcelain. As if sensing his gaze, Kenya looked up, before
offering a soft smile. Immediately Satoru looked away, pretending to watch the
people passing by outside. If life was kind, the plush pillows on his seat
would somehow manage to swallow him whole.
There was a long moment of silence as Kenya took his first sip of his drink.
Satoru refused to look back, but he could feel Kenya’s heavy stare on him. He
suddenly had the distinct feeling he was being assessed—no, interrogated?
Probably both. He sank in his seat a little, finally looking back to meet those
sharp brown eyes, before dropping his gaze back down to his untouched coffee.
“So,” Kenya started, running his thumb along the lip of his mug. “How have you
been, Satoru?”
“Fine,” he muttered, reaching out to take hold of his own cup. He didn’t lift
it off the table, opting to just rest his fingers in the handle, feeling the
heat burning his knuckles. Clearly Kenya was hoping for more, judging by the
weight of his expecting look. But the silence just stretched on between them,
to the point where Satoru could hear the ticking from Kenya’s wristwatch,
counting out every agonizing second.
The blond brought his cup to his mouth and took another sip, before offering
brightly: “Airi told me you draw manga now?”
Satoru’s apathy suddenly shattered into something—biting.He didn’t know what
did it—the fact that Kenya had asked Airi about him,that he was on a first name
basiswith her already, or just the idea of talking about his (rapidly failing)
artistic career—but something bubbled up inside, like acid off his tongue.
“What do you want,Kenya?”
If the other man was surprised by the outburst, he didn’t show it. He only
frowned slightly, setting his mug back down. “Is it so unbelievable that I just
want to see you?” he asked. “We’re friends, Satoru.”
“Werefriends,” he corrected, eyes narrowed. The person sitting across from him
was a stranger, as far as he was concerned. Ten years separated them from the
boys he remembered. And frankly, Satoru couldn’t imagine why anyone would want
to remember those days. Why they wouldn’t compartmentalize everything to do
with Ishikari into a forgotten box in the back of their mind, like he had. Some
part of him knew it wasn’t normal, to carry that empty feeling—that hole in his
mind, his soul—but it was effective, and that was enough for him.
Clearly, not for Kenya. The blond continued to stare at him, his eyebrows
lightly furrowed. “Satoru,” he began, his slim fingers wrapping around his cup.
“Did you ever talk to someone? About what happened?”
Oh, fuck everything about this. “I didn’t need to,” he snapped, glaring over
the table. “Don’tneed to,” he added, more quietly, letting his eyes drop again.
The last thing he wanted was Kenya playing armchair therapist with him; he
grimaced at the thought. Now that he considered it, he didn’t actually know
what Kenya went to school for. Hopefully, anything but psychology.
“Law, actually,” Kenya replied, his gaze and void even. Shit, I said that out
loud.  “But it doesn’t take a psych degree to see you need help, Satoru.”
A scoff left his throat, and he pressed the heel of his hand to one of his
eyes, pushing his glasses up his face. “You were always like this,” he
muttered, glowering at Kenya over his fingers. “You always thought you knew
better than everyone else.”
He could tell he struck a nerve, judging by the way Kenya’s entire body tensed
up as if hit. “This isn’t about me,” the student replied, stiffly.
“Liar,” Satoru said, his irritation burning into a resolve. Kenya wasn’t the
only one who could read people. “It’s absolutely about you. I’m your pity
project. You think by ‘helping me,’ maybe you’ll feel a bit better. Let me tell
you: you won’t.”
He knew from experience. Sometimes, Revival would help a little, let him
pretend for a while that he wasn’t the kind of person who just left someone
alone to die. But give it an hour, maybe two—hell, even just a few minutes,
sometimes—and the truth would seep back in, hollow and empty. It always did.
“It won’t change what happened. Nothing will,” Satoru muttered, pushing himself
to his feet. He knew his next words were cruel, but he couldn’t stop them; his
own hurt was forcing itself off his tongue, like barbed wire coiling out of his
throat. “If you’re going to try to replace Hiromi, then find someone else.”
He turned to go, and realized that for the second time in as many days, Kenya’s
hand was grasping tightly at his wrist. Again, Satoru refused to look back; not
even when he can feel Kenya’s fingers shaking against his skin. Not even when
that voice reached him, achingly quiet.
“You’re right.”
Satoru clenched his jaw, but didn’t turn around.
“When everything happened,” Kenya muttered, his voice firm but soft. “We lost
Hiromi. And then, when you pulled away, it was like—it was like I lost you,
too.”
Don’t look back at him.
“Eventually, I realized that what happened to Hiromi wasn’t my fault,” he
added. “We were just kids. There’s nothing we could have done. But—” He
stopped, taking a slow, shuddering breath. “But I never forgave myself. For
letting you shut me out.”
Don’t look,he repeated to himself. He could hear the emotion in Kenya’s voice,
knew it was probably clear on his face. If Satoru let himself see it, that
reflection of the very things he had concealed under years and years of
distance and apathy, then—then he’d—
“I could have stayed longer, tried harder to get through to you,” Kenya
continued. “All these years, I never stopped thinking about where you were. If
you were okay, now.”
Don’t. Don’t—!
“So please,” the blond whispered, his grip tightening on Satoru’s wrist. “Let
me help you.”
And against every instinct he had, Satoru turned back.
Kenya was still in his seat, leaning forward across the table. His arm extended
to find Satoru’s wrist, holding him there, grounding him to the spot. Though he
was trying his hardest to keep it together, his face was falling apart: his
quivering lips pulled into a tight line, his fingers clutching desperately at
the mangaka’s wrist. Even his sharp eyes were wet, and it knocked the last of
the air from Satoru’s lungs.
Because he knew. Satoru knew that an emotion like this was lurking somewhere
beneath the surface of his own skin. Knew that there were thoughts and pains
that he’d wrapped in chains and hidden away, quarantined from his own mind. He
knew that if he opened that lock, that the wounds would begin to bleed afresh,
ten times worse than whatever it was that was painted on Kenya’s face.
And that terrified him.
Satoru jerked himself loose as if the touch burned, staring down at the blond.
He could feel his own shaking hands grasping at the strap of his messenger bag.
Felt his feet stepping back and away from this spectre of his past, his own
face pale and sweat trickling down his neck. Felt the last of his energy being
put into words, each syllable coming out in a harsh, quiet whisper.
“If you want to help, then stay the hell away from me.”
And like a coward, Satoru ran.
 
***** Kensato (+Yashi), rejection *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt also available on tumblr here.
     Written for YashiSatoKen Week.
Kenya has made a lot of mistakes in his life. Sometimes, in his darkest
moments—when he lies awake at night, staring at nothing but the emptiness of
his apartment—he wonders which one was the biggest. He knows it’s a fruitless
endeavour, knows that each one was just a chip in the foundation. Knows that
there was probably no big final blow: just time, erosion, and hundreds of
things he should have said.
But if he tries—if he had to boil it all down to one instant, one day—
He can still see Satoru sitting at their kitchen table, his eyes red-rimmed and
smudged with dark circles, dressed in yesterday’s clothes. On those lonely
nights, Kenya wants to scream at the person he was—wants to yell help him, he’s
hurtingand try for something that matters for once in your life. Wants to shake
his past self and tell him to go and hold him close, just say something,
anything, fucking begif you have to, just don’t let him slip away, but—
But he hadn’t. Not even when Satoru’s voice, quiet and broken, floated into his
ears.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
Kenya remembers the way his body stopped, his arms threaded through the sleeves
of his coat. Remembers how he stared disbelievingly down at his polished shoes,
his brain registering the words, syllable by syllable. Remembers how he felt
not empathy or guilt or affection; only betrayal, sharp and hot, burrowing in
his blood. He remembers refusing to look at Satoru’s face, his pale complexion,
his slumped shoulders. Kenya had only glared down at his hands as grabbed his
briefcase, knuckles turning white. And as he gripped the doorknob to go, he
snapped:
“Just leave, then.”
Kenya pulled the door closed behind him with a bang, and went to work.
 
 
In hindsight, things… hadn’t been going well for a while.
After the seemingly endless struggles and trials of law school, Kenya found
himself working at a firm. No, that was wrong, a gross oversimplification.
Correction: every morning, Kenya strode into a building made out of steel and
glass, its windows staring over the city like it was a playground of its own
making. The firm was the kind whose name was immortalized in the ink of the
daily papers, power and influence dripping from every penstroke. Tokyo was
their kingdom, and they stood at the very top, looking down on the world from
penthouse suites.
And he was happy. Theywere happy. On the night of his hire, he and Satoru had
celebrated with all the friends and alcohol they could find, collapsing into a
drunken heap on the couch.
“It’s only for their financial division,” Kenya had muttered into the crook of
his lover’s neck, words slurred with affection and gin. “But I can probably
transfer into defense there, eventually.”
“You will,” Satoru had replied, his fingers threading into Kenya’s hair. “I
know you will.”
He didn’t know when or how it happened. Perhaps it was just too slow for him to
realize, creeping up and over them both like a shadow. Kenya started going home
for dinner less, staying in the office later. Most of their clients were
businessmen with considerable assets, if not multinational corporations; when
they needed a legal opinion—a summary of their options, as they called it—Kenya
was obligated to provide. At least, he thought so.
But his superiors were happy with his work: they praised him from on high,
offering promises for a far-flung future. How he was the best young lawyer
they’d seen in years. How he could be the best in the division, at this rate.
(And if nothing else, Kenya wanted to be the best.)
So he became acquainted with the other familiar faces who took the last train
home on weekdays, their suits and ties as dishevelled as his own. Then it was
the weekends, too. Apologetic texts to Satoru grew and crowded his phone with
every cancelled date. Each one was signed with a promise to do something
together, just the two of them, sometime soon. Once things settled down a bit,
he assured him. This won’t last forever.
After six months, he realized it had become a lie. He kept repeating it,
anyway.
Until this morning, at least. Kenya swallowed down his irritation, and tapped
his pen against the page. He’d reread the same paragraph at least a dozen times
by now, his brain circling back in on itself, unable to skip through the
legalese. He was already on his fourth coffee of the day, and it was barely 1:
00 PM; the taste was coarse and bitter on his tongue, almost as much as the
voice still stuck in his ears.
Just leave, then.
He knew he’d been too harsh. He’d known the second the door had slammed shut
behind him. And he also knew, deep down—past the exhaustion that had burrowed
in his bones, making him irritable and biting in an unfamiliar way—that Satoru
had the right to be upset. Yesterday was just another broken promise he could
add to the list, another minor incident he’d promise to make up for, one day.
Except it hadn’t been minor at all.Kenya sighed and pinched at his nose, trying
in vain to rub the weariness out of his eyes. For the hundredth time, he
flipped over his phone, opening the text messages between him and his
boyfriend. Satoru hadn’t sent him anything all day, but his text from yesterday
was still on-screen, hopeful and naïve.
“Tonight’s the finale. You’re still coming, right?”
Guilt gnawed at Kenya’s stomach, nibbling at his insides. Galactica Sword’s
anime run had finished last night. Kenya had missed the premiere—work had
shipped him off to some far-flung corner of Japan on business—but he had
promised to make it to the finale party, at least.
Only he hadn’t: an emergency had cropped up, they were understaffed, there was
no one else to take care of it. The blond had a thousand excuses by the time
he’d rushed into the Shinjuku izakaya the animation studio had rented for the
occasion, but Satoru hadn’t been there to hear a single one.
“Fujinuma-sensei left a while ago,” a woman offered, nibbling on a skewer of
yakitori. “Why, you a friend of his or something?”
“Or something,” Kenya muttered into his palm, staring down at his phone. The
credits had ended with an announcement for second season. Satoru hadn’t
mentioned it before; Kenya could only imagine he’d wanted it to be a surprise.
Or you just weren’t around to hear about it.
He pushed his bangs back with another irritated sigh. They hadn’t even had the
chance to talk last night; Satoru hadn’t come home at all, hadn’t answered any
of Kenya’s texts. By the time the blond had trudged off to bed, there was a
resentful tenseness to his bones. He’d tried—he’d been trying for months,
constantly, ever since getting this job. He’d been trying all night just to get
the chance to apologize, and Satoru wouldn’t even pick up the phone to hear him
out.
The feeling had stayed with him all morning, until he saw Satoru sitting at the
kitchen table as he walked out the door. Sitting there with shoulders hunched
and untouched coffee, and just—not trying. Giving up. On everything.
On them.
Kenya leaned back in his chair, staring out the high-rise windows of his
office. Clearly, he wasn’t going to get any more work done today. He
could—should—leave early; Satoru would be home by now, too. Kenya could pick up
some curry from his boyfriend’s favourite place on the way home: a peace
offering, a little reminder that he still knew what Satoru liked best. Then he
would apologize—like he had more and more frequently, these past few months—and
they would talk it through. Like they always do.
And everything would be fine.
 
 
Except things were clearly not fine.
Kenya looked up from one of the files he brought home from work, and stared up
at the clock. No matter which way he looked at it, Satoru should have been home
by now. Even when he worked late, he’d bring his sketches home, opting to
finish in the comfort of pyjamas and tea. Not that Kenya could exactly fault
Satoru for wanting to linger at the studio tonight. The mangaka had a habit of
withdrawing when he was upset, and besides—Kenya wasn’t the type to throw
stones in glass houses when it came to working late.
But still.He peeked at his phone again. No missed calls, no text messages. No…
nothing. Thatwas odd. No matter how angry Satoru had been at him before, he’d
always text when he was out late, to make sure Kenya didn’t worry. But tonight
there was only silence. More than once he’d considered sending out a text, or
even calling—but if Satoru wanted space, Kenya didn’t want to intrude.
So he sighed and stood, trying to stretch the stiffness out of his shoulders.
At the very least, he could make himself some tea while he waited. Kenya
trekked across the kitchen, grabbing the kettle with one hand as he started the
faucet with the other. He might as well make enough for the both of them, so he
filled the kettle to its full capacity, before setting it down on the counter
and flipping the switch.
As it boiled, he grabbed the teapot from its place in the cupboards. Kenya
pulled his favourite mug down as well: a small, pastel green thing with the
silhouette of a cat on it. His hands automatically reached for Satoru’s—always
in the same place, next to Kenya’s, their handles touching—but his fingers
found only air.
The blond frowned, staring up at the shelf. He pressed his palm against the
floor of the cabinet, feeling his way around for the ceramic. Quickly, he
looked down at the counter, the sink. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t
find it; the little cup they’d picked up in Akihabara together, Wonder Guy’s
mask printed cheaply on the side.
Kenya stepped back and away from the kitchenette, as if that would somehow help
him see what clearly wasn’t there. Despite the steam coming out the kettle,
heavy and hot, a chill was spreading over the lawyer’s skin.
I don’t think I can do this anymore.
Kenya forced himself to breathe as he marched across the living room, anxiety
curling into his chest. Satoru had just left the mug in his office,
probably—had just forgot to bring it back after a late night sketching. That
was it. That’s all.
But when he pushed the door open, the mug wasn’t there.
And neither was Satoru’s drafting table. Kenya froze at the sight of the near-
empty office, one hand hovering uselessly in the air. Bookshelves stood
abandoned at their stations on the walls, shelves empty and bare of the
references and manga volumes that usually adorned their faces. The walls were
white and untouched, the posters that should have been there just—not. Bits of
tape remained here and there, the only sign that the sterile room had ever been
used.
Just leave, then.
No.
No, this—this wasn’t happening.
Kenya rushed into their bedroom. He’d come in here to change earlier, but had
only thrown his own drawers open; now, he pulled on every handle in the bureau,
feeling the distinct horror as Satoru’s lurched under his hand, light and
hollow. The socks and shirts that should have been here were gone, just—just
like—
“Satoru,” he whispered, the pain in his chest suddenly bursting into
something.For a long moment, Kenya just stared wide-eyed down at the desolate
drawers, his head struggling to keep pace with the broken beating in his chest.
He forced himself to breathe through the feeling strangling his throat, his
spine steadily straightening as the world kept spinning.
He’d left. He’d left.
He pressed his hand to his mouth, running it over the lower half of his face,
his mind racing a mile a minute. Fast enough that his emotions didn’t have a
chance to catch up; he just needed to think, think.
It wasn’t too late. He could—he could still fix this.
Kenya told himself that again and again as he ran back to the kitchen table,
snatching his phone and pressing the speed dial. Satoru’s name appeared on his
screen, and Kenya brought the speaker to his ear as he paced, listening to the
dial tone ring. And ring. His chest soared at the sound of a click, only to be
met with the familiar tone of Satoru’s voicemail kicking in.
He shut the call and instantly went to his texts, his thumbs moving desperately
against the glass.
“Please pick up the phone, Satoru. Talk to me.”
He watched until the message was confirmed as sent. His teeth sank into his
bottom lip, and he couldn’t resist sending another.  “I’m so sorry. Let me make
it up to you. Please, just pick up.”
As if hoping his words already had an effect, Kenya called again.
Listened to Satoru’s voicemail again.
Hung up again, staring down at his screen with blurring vision.
Kenya stood there, the kettle having long since clicked off, the steam
dissipating into the cold of the apartment. There still had to be something he
could do. He could—he could go find Satoru. There were only so many places he
could be: staying at a friend’s place, or at his studio, or his mother’s
apartment. So long as he wasn’t in one of the thousands of anonymous hotels in
the city, Kenya should be able to track him down. Then he would apologize with
everything he had—not just for last night, but for everything. He’d hold him
close and promise to quit his job, if he had to. He’d promise things would be
different and meanit, this time. He’d—
Kenya’s mind jerked to a halt at the sound of keys in the lock.
He crossed the room in a half-jog, heart beating hopefully loudly in his chest.
His lips were already spreading into a relieved smile, despite the burning of
springing to his eyes. He ignored it all as he wrapped his hand around the
doorknob, throwing the door open and whispering through the desperation in his
throat. “Sato—”
For a long second, Kenya stared through blurring vision the man standing in the
hall. The person standing there was holding Satoru’s keys: Kenya would
recognize them anywhere, with their cheap gachapon charms. But it was not
Satoru. Against his best judgement, he could feel his face falling, his tense
lips quivering with the effort not to break apart.
Hiromi only smiled sadly up at his friend, his fingers still wrapped around the
keys. “Hey, Kenya.”
The blond’s eyes fell down to the keyring, cheap plastic anime mascots hanging
from the metal. If Hiromi had Satoru’s keys—if Satoru had givenHiromi his keys,
then—
“He’s,” Kenya started, feeling the heat starting to spill down his cheeks.
“He’s really gone, isn’t he?”
The doctor swallowed thickly, before raising his other hand, holding up the 12-
pack of beer in silent offering. “Can I come in?”
 
 
By the end of his first beer, Kenya seemed to regain the ability to speak. At
first, the words came out stilted and almost wheezing, forced through a throat
so tight he thought he would choke to death. But by the end of the third
bottle, his lips could hardly stop moving, the syllables and excuses and
regrets falling off his tongue.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered into his palm, staring down at the kitchen
table with wide eyes. “I didn’t—he had to know I didn’t mean it.”
Hiromi was on his second by now, but he had always been a lightweight; he spun
the bottle between his palms, his cheeks already dusted pink by alcohol. “I
don’t think he did, Kenya. I mean, you,” Hiromi stopped, giving a harsh sigh.
“You haven’t been yourself lately. You know that, right?”
The blond gave a shape intake of air as he stared down the neck of his bottle,
biting his lip.
“Kayo and I haven’t even seen you in months,” Hiromi mumbled, sinking further
down into his seat. “Satoru said you weren’t even coming home anymore. That
when you did, you were always in a bad mood. And he just looked… lonely all the
time, you know?”
He knew. He hadn’t seen it before, but now he couldn’t stop noticing it in
hindsight, replaying their meetings again in his mind. The way his
boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, god—had looked that very morning: dreary and pale, as
if he’d been awake and struggling for far too long, eyes red with fatigue and—
“To be honest,” Hiromi whispered, turning his drunken gaze in Kenya’s
direction. “We didn’t think he’d last this long.”
A broken noise splintered off Kenya’s lips; something that was half-laugh,
half-sob, bitterer than the coffee he’d found himself addicted to. He pressed
the heel of his hand to one eye, trying to rub away the moisture that was
starting to pool there again. He was already sick of crying; he’d spent his
entire first bottle and most of the second trying to off-set the tears with
liquor.
“I’ve… really been an idiot, haven’t I?”
“Yeah,” Hiromi muttered. “But I think Satoru realized. That you needed a wake-
up call.”
“And this is it?” Kenya snapped, his hand curling into a fist in his own hair.
If that was the case, he’d learnt his lesson already. So Satoru should come
back now, should—should talk to him, come home, figure things out. It hadn’t
even been two hours since Kenya realized he was gone, but there was already a
Satoru-shaped ache in his chest that beer just wasn’t filling. If he stared
into it for too long, it would swallow him whole.
“No.” His friend sank in his seat. “That was a while ago. He kept trying to
bring you out of it, trying to talk to you. It just… wasn’t working. He didn’t
know what else to do anymore.”
As quickly as the spark of energy had come, it was gone; Kenya hunched
bonelessly over the kitchen table, one elbow propped against the wood. God, he
hadn’t realized that Satoru was talking to Kayo and Hiromi so much, but he
supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Just because Kenya had disengaged from
everything—everyone—didn’t mean that Satoru had. And despite how the mangaka
acted sometimes—strong, independent—Satoru had always been the kind of person
who struggled when left alone.
And you left him alone constantly. Kenya had lost track of how many days he
came home after Satoru was asleep, leaving in the early hours of the morning,
long before he woke up. There must have been entire weeks where they had lived
under the same roof, yet never crossed paths, never exchanged so much as a
single word. Last night, missing the finale—that was just the killing blow.
“He’s with Kayo right now, isn’t he?” Kenya whispered. Out of the corner of his
eye, he watched Hiromi nod. That wasn’t surprising: they had always been close,
ever since they were young. Kenya suspected that Kayo probably had Satoru’s
phone. At least, he wanted to pretend that Satoru wouldn’t ignore all his calls
and texts, otherwise.
“I…” Kenya started, swallowing thickly. “There’s nothing I can do now, is
there?”
Hiromi watched him for a long second, leaning forward on his elbows with a sad,
bitter smile. “That’s not for me to decide. Or you.”
The blond sighed, squeezing his burning eyes shut. “I don’t know what… what I’m
supposed to do, now.”
His friend wrapped his fingers around the bottle, giving it a little shake. The
dredges of beer sloshed against the glass. “Can I make a suggestion?”
Kenya turned his broken gaze up to Hiromi’s round face.
“You spent so long promising Satoru it would get better. That youwould get
better.” Hiromi turned a sympathetic gaze in Kenya’s direction. “Show him that
you still can.”
The doctor brought his beer to his lips, finally polishing off the last of his
drink. The bottom of the bottle met the table with a soft thunk, the
condensation rushing down onto the wood. “Besides,” he added, giving a bright,
drunken smile. “The rest of us have missed you, too.”
 
 
Hiromi ended up spending the night; partly for Kenya’s benefit, and partly
because he was too drunk to do anything else. By the end of the evening, a sea
of beer bottles had found permanent residence in the sink, and the curry he’d
bought for Satoru had been mournfully sent to the garbage can. But no matter
how thoroughly Kenya had tried to drown his emotions in alcohol, he still woke
up in the morning with the same ache in his chest—and another in his head,
pounding mercilessly in his skull.
His round-faced friend bleary blinked awake from his place from the couch, and
watched Kenya shrug on his coat. “Are you,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes.
“Are you going to work?”
“Yeah,” Kenya groaned, toeing on his shoes.
“Are y’sure that’s a good idea?” the doctor asked, detangling himself from his
blankets. “You should call in—”
“I think,” he interrupted, before swallowing thickly and dropping his voice. “I
think I… just need to keep myself busy right now.” He pulled the door open,
stopping half-way out the door to turn around and stare back at his friend. “Do
you… want to grab dinner, tomorrow night?”
Hiromi blinked at him, before offering a soft smile and nodding. “Yeah. I’d
like that a lot.”
Kenya tried to muster up a smile of his own, nodding back at him. “I’ll see you
then.” He stopped for a moment, mulling over his words as he hovered in the
doorway, one hand still on the knob. “And… thanks. For everything.”
“That’s what friends are for,” the other man offered, smiling. “I’ll see you
tomorrow, Kenya.”
 
 
The day was never-ending.
Kenya watched the world around him as if it were something other, something
detached from him and his body. He moved through his commute in a daze, barely
registering when he got on and off the train. Didn’t remember making the walk
to his office, or even stepping in the elevator. It was like his entire body
was on auto-pilot, just going through the familiar motions, letting itself be
nudged by the waves of routine.
(The routine that had pushed Satoru away.)
But he still tried. Kenya read his emails and began to work on the files
growing on the corner of his desk like mold. But the letters just swam in front
of his eyes, and he eventually realized he wasn’t even really reading anymore;
he was just replaying the last day, the last week, the last monthsover in his
head. Before he knew it, he was reaching for his phone, scrolling up through
the texts under Satoru’s name.
“I rented this documentary I thought you’d like—want to watch it together?”
“Kazu is coming to town for some kind of carpentry conference?? I didn’t know
those existed, but he invited us to dinner if you’re free.”
“Will you be home tonight? I miss you.”
Kenya turned off his phone, and forced himself to keep breathing as he stood up
from his desk.
There was a meeting in the conference room in a couple of minutes. He had to
pick himself up, put himself back together. No matter how inescapable this
feeling was—no matter how much he felt like this entire building was crumbling
onto his chest, cracking his ribs and pressing down on the soft organs
inside—he still had a job to do.
So he gathered up his things and walked down the hall, spine straight and face
even, betraying nothing.
But his mind wasn’t there. Kenya spent the meeting scribbling down half-formed
notes, the procedures and precedents filling the margins. But the second his
concentration slipped, even for a moment, he found himself flung back again, to
a night months gone. It was the first time Satoru had challenged him on how
much he was working; the mangaka had stayed up until his boyfriend had come
home, hands clenched at his sides.
“Are you really happy like this, Kenya?”
He doesn’t remember exactly what he said—probably that this was only temporary,
that he would start coming home earlier, all those small little lies he’d
become so adept at telling. And finally: “Once I move up in the division, this
won’t happen anymore.”
What he does remember is how Satoru seemed to stutter and stop, his voice
dropping low. “I… I thought you said that you wanted to transfer to defense.”
It was their first real argument. When they first met, they both had said they
wanted to help people—Satoru through his art, by inspiring others to want to be
better,be heroes. And Kenya had wanted to be that for someone: had worked to be
able to defend the defenseless, to be the final frontier between them and the
cold reality of a prison cell. It was one of the things that had drawn them
together in the first place.
But that night, all Kenya heard was the disappointment in Satoru’s voice. More
than anything, it felt like a rejection: of his successes, his efforts, his
blood and sweat and tears. So they fought: they fought with rising voices and
biting words, until Kenya gave in to his dwindling patience, snapping between
grit teeth.
“This isn’t one of your comics, Satoru. We can’t all be the heroes you write
about.”
“I thought you at least wanted to try!”
Kenya looked around the meeting with tired eyes, listening to the droning of
his superiors. It was all so… vapid. They were just helping the rich get
richer; skirting around near the edges of legality, all but discounting
morality. Working day and night, searching for loopholes that would help
infinitely large sums get infinitesimally bigger. And for what reason? What
purpose?
Kenya stared down at his hands, one still clutching a ballpoint pen.
He can’t believe he ever thought this was important.
And Satoru had tried to call him out on it. Had tried to bring Kenya back to
the reality of what he had set out to do, what he really wanted. And all he’d
done is push him away further, embracing the numbers and the ink.
Between the two of them, Kenya had chosenthis.
Someone nudged him, and the blond forced his eyes up to meet the confused stare
of a coworker. “Hey,” she whispered. “You alright, Kobayashi?”
“I,” he started, breathing deeply as he gathered up his things. “I’m afraid I’m
not feeling well.”
She furrowed her brows, and Kenya felt the weight of her stare as he stood up
from his seat and excused himself. As he fled the room, he swallowed down the
bile and self-loathing he could feel bubbling up in his throat. He was—he was
just feeling emotional. Still reeling from yesterday. That was it. Satoru’s
words were still bouncing in his head, skewing his perception, pushing his
brain off-course.
He promised himself that tomorrow would be better. Then he slipped his arms
into his coat, clutched his keys in his hand, and escaped towards home.
 
 
Immediately, he regretted coming back.
Even after leaving work, Kenya had avoided it for as long as he could; told
himself he needed the fresh air as he walked around aimlessly, his hands buried
in his coat pockets. Admittedly, the stroll probably had done him good: his
mind felt clearer than it had all day. After an hour or two, he thought he
could do this. Thought he could meet the emptiness waiting beyond his own front
door.
He stared blankly down at the floor of the genkan. Normally, when he came home,
he’d find Satoru’s sneakers thrown haphazardly in the corner, one flopped on
top of the other. Now, there was only nothing. Softly, Kenya slipped off his
own shoes, setting them down in Satoru’s place. Then he turned his tired eyes
to the dark apartment, flicking on the lightswitch.
“I’m home.”
No one greeted him but his own shadow, falling across the furniture.
He’d never realized just how horrible coming home to an empty apartment could
be.
 
 
He had told himself that everything would get better; that eventually he’d be
able to stomach his work again, that he would get used to the empty four walls
that greeted him every night. That eventually, he’d learn to live with the
empty half of the bed.
He told himself all the lies he’d always told Satoru, swallowing them like a
bitter pill, and told himself he believed them.
A week after Satoru left, Kenya resigned.
 
 
“It’s not that we won’t have you,” the older man assured him, eyebrows raised
high. “If anything, we’re understaffed. It’s just that you seem…
overqualified.”
Kenya sat painfully straight in his seat, his spine snapped to military
attention. He wasoverqualified. And he knew that, had known that there was no
chance of getting refused the second he walked into this office and slid his
resumé across the table. Yet there was still a nervous churning in his stomach,
and his folded hands clenched around each other, the knuckles going silently
white.
The interviewer leaned forward, pressing his elbows against the desk. “You
could go anywhere, Kobayashi,” he began, adjusting the glasses on his face. “So
tell me. Why do you want to work in legal aid?”
Satoru’s face flew to his mind, and Kenya gave a soft smile across the table.
“I want to be a hero, I suppose.”
Five minutes later, the contracts were signed, and Kenya was proud shaking
Sawada’s hand.
 
 
Legal aid paid a lot less than his old job. A lotless. If Kenya had to describe
the difference, he’d probably need to resort to obscure fractions and a
calculator. But money had never really mattered to him, and he knew how to live
within his means. He signed up for the local library for his literary needs,
and had no qualms with going out for dinner less—he’d been meaning to learn to
cook, anyway. Besides, his suits would last him for a couple of years before
they needed replacing. He would be just fine.
But the apartment had to go.
If he were still on his old salary, he would have been able to afford it. But
without Satoru’s half of the rent, it wasn’t going to be feasible for him on
his own anymore. Hiromi had initially suggested Kenya look into getting a
roommate—Satoru’s studio room was empty, after all—but Kenya immediately shot
that down. He couldn’t stomach the idea of living with someone else in
theirhome, let alone letting a stranger claim Satoru’s room as their own.
So Kenya had bought as many cardboard boxes as he thought he’d need, setting
the stack down on the kitchen table with a heavy sigh. He’d already sold the
furniture to his landlord, so he didn’t need to bring any of that
along—besides, barely any of it would fit in his new place. He could use the
money to buy his new furnishings, at least.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t miss it. All of it. Softly, he trailed his
fingers along the couch where he and Satoru had often fallen asleep, legs and
arms haphazardly tangled around each other. Took the time to sit at the kitchen
table where they had eaten so many meals together, Satoru’s glasses often
filling up with steam. Moved up to grab his lonely mug, sitting abandoned on
the shelf.
He hadn’t realized he had been staring at the porcelain until a knock pulled
him out of his thoughts. Gently, he set the cup down and crossed the room,
pulling the front door open—only to be met with a pair of harsh, narrowed eyes.
“Are you an idiot?”
Kenya winced immediately, his hand dropping from the doorknob. Kayo was
standing there, her arms crossed and glare bitingly cold, like frostbite. For a
long second, he stared, taking in her tight shoulders and narrowed, as if she
somehow carried traces of the person he was missing.
But there was no Satoru with her. There was no Satoru at all, so he offered her
a broken attempt at a smile.
“Yeah,” he said. “I really am.”
Her eyes moved across his face. Then she gave a harsh sigh, reaching forward to
give him a small—affectionate?—pat on the shoulder, stepping past him. Kenya
raised his eyebrows, before turning to the other person hovering in the
hallway. Hiromi was giving him a sheepish smile, punctuated by an awkward wave.
“We, uh, came to help.”
“Thanks,” Kenya added, moving aside for him. His voice dropped to a whisper as
he watched Kayo harshly grab at one of the boxes, assembling it with a rage
he’d normally associate with someone trying to strangle a duck. “Is she—?”
“Still furious at you?” Hiromi finished, slipping off his shoes. “Yeah. I
mean—she and Satoru are close, and she was with him when… you know,” he said,
trailing off with a noncommittal wave of his hand. Kenya got the meaning well
enough: Kayo was the one who picked up the pieces after Kenya had—well, after
Kenya, in general. “But I think she gets that you’re trying. She insisted on
coming, after all.”
Kenya blinked at him, before turning his attention to the young woman in the
kitchen. There was a barely-contained wrath in every movement she made, every
motion stilted and made with a little too much force. He reached his fingers up
to his shoulder, to the place where her fingers had been, feeling the fading
warmth there. Kenya had no idea what Satoru had looked like that night—but he
could imagine, based on that morning. He’d already spent too many nights
imagining his former lover arriving at Kayo’s doorstep, all of his belongings
shoved into a duffel bag, eyes filled with dark circles and tears.
Kayo had every right to hate him. But she was here, instead.
She suddenly turned in their direction, irresponsible amounts of cardboard
clenched in each hand. “Are you two going to help?”
Kenya bit down the urge to laugh, and stepped up to take one of the boxes.
“Thanks, Kayo.”
 
 
His new apartment was—quaint.
It was—admittedly—small, but he didn’t dislike it. The main room had a kitchen
and living space that would fit a small dining table and a couch, at least. The
bedroom was just as big, separated by a sliding door and covered in tatami
flooring. Kenya had bought a new futon, and quickly realized that sleeping like
this actually felt nice on his stiff shoulders.
It was close to work—only a few stations away, really—and there was even a
local coffee shop around the corner. Bit by bit, Kenya found himself settling
into a new routine; one where he woke up and made himself breakfast, got a
coffee and settled at his desk without an all-encompassing feeling of dread.
The work was hard, the pay was horrible, but it was—fulfilling in a way he
hadn’t realized he had been missing.
It should have been perfect. It wouldhave been perfect. But there was still a
second futon set in the closet, unused and untouched—aside from the times Kenya
had aired it out.
Kenya stared up at his dark ceiling. It was late; he should go to sleep, he
knew that, but rest just wouldn’t come. With nothing else to do, his hand
snaked out of his futon and reached for his phone. The light was harsh against
his eyes, his fingers navigating to Satoru’s name.
They hadn’t spoken since that day. Not even a text. But Kenya had a hundred of
things he could think of saying—that he wantedto say. They tumbled through his
brain constantly, anytime his mind wandered long enough for the regrets to seep
back in. On the loneliest nights, he imagined standing in front of Satoru in
their kitchen again, the words rushing off his lips.
You were right, the whole time. I quit my job. I help people now, people who
don’t have anyone else to turn to. My boss is kind—did you know he used to know
your mother? I’ve seen Kayo and Hiromi more this week than I have in the past
six months combined. Kazu’s even going to stay with me on his next visit.
I’m so sorry. For everything.
He scrolled up through the old texts.
“Will you be home tonight? I miss you.”
Kenya blinked back the heat in his eyes, and muttered to no one: “I miss you
too.”
If Kenya could go back in time, he’d slam his fist into his past self’s face;
he’d make sure he realized what he was losing, would stop him before everything
he loved was pushed off the brink. He didn’t know what he would give to have
Satoru back in his arms, their lips brushing and breaths mingling. To go back
to the days where they fell asleep with their fingers brushing, his lover
smiling sleepily at him from his pillow.
But more than anything, he wanted to tell Satoru about how he was doing. Wanted
to tell him about the people he was helping, about the life he was living now.
Wanted to show him his new apartment, tell him about the neighbour who is
obnoxiously obsessed with idols,judging by the music occasionally bleeding
through Kenya’s walls. Wanted to ask him how he was doing, where he was living,
how his work was going, if he was happy now.
More than anything, Kenya missed his best friend.
Alone in the dark, he shut off his phone, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.
 
 
Kenya couldn’t say what compelled him to stop in the bookstore. He got all of
his books from the library nowadays—partly due to the reduced cost, but also
because his apartment simply didn’t have the space to accumulate anything. But
there was something about the act of being in a bookstore, looking around and
taking his time, that was oddly therapeutic.
He’d planned to by-pass the manga section entirely—some things just hurt more
than they were worth—until he heard two voices, talking animatedly amongst
themselves in hushed tones.
“—best arc by far!The Fujinuma-sensei’s never done something dark like that
before, it was so cool!”
Kenya stopped, his ears alert as he pretended to read something off the shelf.
But he couldn’t resist shooting side-long glances at the two high-school
students standing by Satoru’s work, quietly debating amongst themselves.
“I don’t know,” the other replied. “It just… didn’t feel like GalaSwordfor a
little while there, you know?”
The blond frowned, putting back the book he was using as a cover and turning to
the two of them. “Excuse me,” he started, stepping up to the two teenagers.
“You’re talking about Galactica Sword,right?”
The two boys exchanged a glance, before looking apprehensively back up at the
adult.
“I’m just wondering what arc you were talking about,” he explained with a small
smile. “I haven’t caught up in a while.”
One of them seemed to light up dramatically, his eyes sparking with a
distinctly Satoru-like joy as he motioned to the volumes. “The Thornarc. It
finished up a couple of months ago, but it’s going to be my all-time favourite,
for sure!”
“It’s divisive,” the other piped in, quieter. “Most people agree the art and
story are great, but it doesn’t really… fit with the rest of the series.”
Kenya frowned. A couple of months ago?
“Do you know what volume it started in?”
Fifteen minutes later, the lawyer walked out with an empty wallet, an
insatiable curiosity, and six volumes of Galactica Swordin a plastic bag.
 
 
Most of his weekly budget had been spent on manga, but he didn’t care. Kenya
wouldn’t be going out this week anyway, not when he had so much reading to do.
So he cracked open his instant noodles without a hint of regret, and dove
eagerly into his makeshift dinner—along with the ink and lines of Satoru’s art.
Something about the familiar penstrokes felt—felt like coming home, and Kenya
couldn’t resist the small smile spreading on his face. There was an energy in
the way Satoru drew that even a manga amateur like Kenya could appreciate. It
was hard not to get absorbed in the story, and he breezed through the first of
his purchased volumes, his noodle cup long empty and discarded in the trash
can.
Immediately, could tell that things feltdifferent. The heroes were confronted
by a new, powerful threat—but the intentions and identity of the unseen enemy
were still unclear. They could only see the aftermath of what their foe had
done, the effects it was having on the world the main characters were trying to
protect. It was oddly… un-Satoru-like, in terms of plot.
Kenya flipped the page, and stared in shock as the page filled with black, ink-
stained blood.
One of the main characters—not the main hero or heroine, but still—was there.
Impaled on dark vines, thorns jutting from her corpse. For a long second, Kenya
felt a chill crawling along his skin as he stared down at the character’s
lifeless face, her eyes wide and pale.
She—she was Satoru’s favourite.
Kenya counted the chapters, searched his head for everything he’d picked up
from Satoru about publishing. If the volume was published a couple of months
ago, then the chapter would have been released when—when they were still
together. Why hadn’t Satoru said anything? He used to tell Kenya about
everything he was writing, every time he was considering a big milestone.
Especially if it concerned a character he loved so much.
Used to.Kenya frowned, his fingers curling against the pages. It wasn’t that
Satoru hadn’t told him; it was that Kenya wasn’t around to listen. He flipped
the page with renewed vigour, charging forward, his lips a tight line. While
Kenya was off working, Satoru had poured himself into this, laying his emotions
down in ink. As much as Kenya was starting to regret it, he had a duty to
finish what he’d started, flipping rapidly through the pages.
The boys in the bookstore were right. It was verygood—the art, the writing,
even the tone. The blond knew he was approaching the climax, five volumes
already finished and pushed to the side. The dark power had infected Galactica
herself: after losing her friend and then her country, the evil had managed to
creep in to her very soul. Now she stared up at him from the paper, suspended
by vines and bleeding from the thorns jutting out of her skin. There was a
melancholy resignation in her eyes, one that Kenya didn’t recognize until he
read the next page.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
Kenya stared down at the book that he still clutched in his shaking hands, and
turned the page.
Galactica’s head hung low, a long dribble of blood slipping out of her lips.
“No matter how hard I try, nothing matters,” she continued. The hero was there,
on the other-end of the room; Kenya can only imagine his own face must be
mirrored in the ink there, both of them wide-eyed and disbelieving. Still, she
continued in a voice that sounded achingly familiar in Kenya’s mind. “It’s like
everything I love is made out of glass. The harder I try to hold on, the more
it breaks apart in my hand.”
Kenya’s mind thought back to the text messages from Satoru, still immortalized
on his phone. He turned the page.
“And it hurts,” she muttered, staring down at her broken palm. “Each piece cuts
deeper than the last, and I… I just can’t do it anymore.”
The next page was split into silent panels, the hero’s hands curling into
fists, his mouth opening to speak. For a second, Kenya just held the book,
refusing to flip the page. He didn’t know what the main character was going to
say. What he was supposedto say. A bead of sweat was trickling down his jaw,
long and slow. He took one deep breath, then another.
And then he turned the page.
“Then let’s hurt together.”
Kenya watched through blurring eyes as the hero pushed forward, the thorns
stabbing into his skin. “If you’re hurting, let me hurt with you! If you’re
bleeding, I’ll bleed with you!” The vines were thick, too thick, but he pushed
himself against them all the same; he reached out through the gaps, his fingers
brushing against Galactica’s long, silver hair. “Just, please, promise me—”
The hero looked up at her pleadingly. “Promise you’ll stay with me.”
 
 
(That night—and for many nights after—Kenya had a recurring nightmare. One
where Satoru was there, just beyond his reach. The mangaka’s body was covered
in blood and thorns, and no matter how hard Kenya tried—no matter how much he
tore at the vines, until his palms were slick and raw—he just couldn’t get
through.
It always ended the same way: Satoru smiling sadly through the thicket, his
voice quiet and breaking. “Just leave, Kenya.”)
 
 
The next morning, there was a stranger in his office.
No, that wasn’t quite accurate: there was a stranger rifling through his
office. In a manner that was illegal in at least two—no, maybe three ways. She
stood by one of the filing cabinets, eyes scanning the notes and nose buried in
a file folder, not even acknowledging the confused lawyer in the doorway.
Kenya stared at the file. The very confidentialfile. From a locked drawer.
He cleared his throat and crossed his arms, glaring from the doorway. If she
was at all surprised by his presence, she didn’t show it. Instead, she just
glanced at him over the edge of the papers, before letting her eyes fall back
to the file. “Hey.”
“Who are you?”
She didn’t answer, flipping the page. “You’re good, you know. Better than
most.”
Kenya opened his mouth to protest again, when a heavy hand fell on his
shoulder. He turned his head and met eyes with a smiling—and clearly
amused—Sawada. “I see you two have already met,” he began, motioning across the
room. “Kobayashi, meet Nakanishi Aya. She’ll be your new paralegal starting
today.”
“A pleasure,” she replied flatly, making a seat out of Kenya’s desk, never
tearing her eyes from the police report.
“Nice to meet you,” Kenya muttered absently, looking curiously over to the
director. His voice dropped to a whisper as his eyebrows raised, asking: “I
thought we were broke?”
The man’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a slightly tense edge to it, the
expression suddenly forced. “Consider it an investment,” he replied, squeezing
Kenya’s shoulder firmly before turning to leave. “Good luck,” he added, giving
a short wave with one hand as he pulled Kenya’s office door closed with the
other. Through the cheap, frosted glass, the lawyer watched his boss’
silhouette retreat, giving a short sigh to himself.
Then he slowly turned to face his new subordinate. Nakanishi stared at him with
one eyebrow raised, still seated on the surface of Kenya’s desk, legs crossed
at the knee. She held up a file, evidence photos and witness testimony
practically spilling out its sides. From here, Kenya could read the name
scribbled on the label. Shiratori Jun. “How do you feel about a murder in the
morning?”
The blond gave her a dry look, adjusting his tie. “Great.”
 
 
“You got Misato’s invitation, right?” Hiromi asked, gingerly wrapping his mouth
around the straw of his frappucino. Kenya sipped at his coffee with a short
nod, staring at his friend over the rim. The invite had popped into his inbox
sometime last night. A ‘reunion party,’ she called it. In reality, it was an
excuse for their scattered college group to get together and drink like they
were students again. Not that any of them were complaining.
Hiromi set his drink back down on the table. “Are you going?”
“I don’t know,” Kenya admitted quietly. He’d reconnected with Hiromi and Kayo,
but it was easy when they were so close-by. Misato, Kazu, Osamu—they had moved
elsewhere, out of the city. Kenya had started to send them messages again, but
even he could tell it wasn’t the same. Some bridges needed to be rebuilt in
person. But—
His friend tilted his head to the side. “You’re worried about Satoru?”
He chewed at his lip, and gave a curt nod. The doctor’s eyes softened, offering
the blond a sympathetic smile. “I think he’d be happy to see you, Kenya.”
The lawyer stared down at his own reflection, rippling in the dark surface in
his cup.
“Do you remember what you said to me? That night?” he asked. “That I needed to
prove I could be better.”
Hiromi paused mid-sip, eyes widening as he pulled the drink away from his
gaping mouth. “Wait. Is thatwhat you’re nervous about?”
He stared across the table, and took a sip.
“Kenya—” Hiromi started, his brows furrowing as he struggled for words.
“You’re—you’ve already gotten so much better. Trust me.” He set his drink down
seriously, condensation rushing down its sides. “Don’t you think it’s enough
now?”
(He thought back to Satoru’s main character, the lines imprinted on Kenya’s
brain like a manga panel in his very mind. Thought back to the way he pushed
through, reaching forward despite the pain, his skin tearing against the
thorns. Like a hero.)
“No,” Kenya whispered. “Not yet.”
 
 
Surprisingly, Kenya and Aya worked very well together. They moved forward on
their tasks individually, in the same way that gears move on their own;
independently, yet interconnected. With some of the duties split between them,
Kenya found they had the time to take on more cases, help more people. It
was—satisfying, in no small part because they were actually winning.
Cases sent to legal aid never had good odds to begin with; that was just the
reality when your case got sent to the public defenders, often over-stretched
and under-funded. But case by case—win by win—their ratio ticked ever higher,
until they were winning half of the cases sent their way. The two of them were
a well-oiled machine, communicating with hushed words and brief courtroom
glances.
Every once in a while, there was a new prosecutor on the other side of the
bench; probably fresh out of school, Kenya thinks, still so prideful and naïve.
They were the ones who took every defeated case as a personal affront, as if
convicted defendants were stamps on some point card. Kenya would be lying if he
didn’t get some strange pleasure out of beating them: it felt like a victory
against the past, against the person he used to be. Quantitative proof of how
far he’d come.
But the man standing across the courtroom from them now wasn’t a rookie. Aya
leaned close to Kenya, her lips barely moving, staring at him seriously through
her thick lashes. “Yashiro Gaku,” she explained quietly. “Best prosecutor the
city has. He’s never lost a case.”
Kenya nodded, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “We’ll see.”
He’d heard of Yashiro Gaku before, of course; he thinks they might have met at
a conference of some sort, once. As far as he knew, the man was—pleasant.
Charming, even. Skilled in the courtroom, but gracious outside of it. Kenya
stared across the room at the dark-haired man, with his loose hair and pitch
black suit. There was nothing strange or out of the ordinary, but Kenya
couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something—offabout him. As if reading
his thoughts, the prosecutor raised his head, the dark of his eyes meeting
Kenya’s brown. Then he flashed his opponent a polite smile.
Kenya smiled back. He must be imagining things.
 
 
Never mind. Yashiro Gaku was a monster.
Kenya had never seen a prosecutor—hell, anyone—get away with such underhanded
tactics in the courtroom.  It had started innocuously enough, but the blond
quickly picked up the threads the prosecutor was spinning, a spider web being
weaved with his silver tongue. By the end of the opening arguments, the blond
had the sinking feeling the judges were already ensnared, unwittingly hanging
on Yashiro’s every word.
It left a bad taste in his mouth as he gathered his things, glaring down at the
papers as if they had personally affronted him. Aya excused herself with a
short bow, marching out of the courtroom with her chin tucked angrily against
her chest. He couldn’t blame her, so he let her go; they both probably needed
to cool their heads before they figured out a new game plan, some other way to
tackle the Shiratori Case. Kenya was already parsing through the possibilities,
his hand gripping at his chin as he stepped out of the courtroom, a the
beginnings of a headache forming under his skull.
Until a voice shattered his every thought. “Kenya?”
The blond stopped, eyes wide. Slowly turned towards the familiar voice, the
familiar face—meeting two blue eyes that were blinking at him in surprise.
“Satoru,” he breathed.
God, it—it had been over a year since he’d last seen him, but Satoru hadn’t
changed a bit. Still wore the same glasses, the same messenger bag, the same
baggy sweaters over a wrinkled white button-up. The mangaka stared at him for a
long, shocked moment—and Kenya was vaguely aware that they were both standing
stock-still in the middle of the busy hallway, the bustling of traffic blurring
around them. He just couldn’t find it in himself to care.
Kenya tried to think of something to say. Anything.There were so many things he
had wanted to say, so many things he had whispered into his pillow for so many
nights, but—but he wasn’t ready, not now, he thought he’d have more time.Satoru
shifted awkwardly for a moment, offering up a sheepish (adorable, bright,
loving) smile. “Long time no see, huh?”
“Yeah,” Kenya replied, unable to resist stepping closer. Because it was Satoru,
Satoruwas here, standing in front of him. “How are you?” he asked. The question
probably came out quicker than he meant to, but he needed to know; needed to
hear it from Satoru’s own mouth that he was okay, that he wasn’t still the
person trying not to fall apart at Kenya’s kitchen table.
“I’m good,” he replied quietly, and Kenya believed it. There were no dark
circles anymore, no red rimming his eyes. He even seemed less pale, maybe a
little less deathly thin. Relief washed over him, and he released a slow
breath. “How… how have you been, Kenya?”
Better. I’m so much better. You were right, about everything—I was miserable
and I didn’t even know it. And I had to lose you to realize what an idiot I had
become.
“I work in legal aid now,” he stated suddenly. “In criminal defense.”
Satoru’s eyes widened behind his lenses for an instant, before suddenly melting
into something warm. “And—you’re happy?”
Not without you.But Kenya had become good at lying to Satoru, so he smiled and
said: “Yes.”
Some of the tension was easing out of the mangaka’s shoulders. “I’m glad.”
Kenya could feel the impending conversation fading, could feel the awkward
small talk ending. But he was selfish—still so, so selfish—and now that Satoru
was here, the last thing he wanted to do was let him walk away. So he swallowed
thickly and gripped his briefcase tightly, until he could feel his nails
digging painfully into his palm.
“Satoru,” he started, taking another step closer. “Do you want to grab a coffee
with me?”
His ex-boyfriend blinked at him for a moment, his smile growing wider. “I’d
love to,” he started, before his face dimmed, his hand curling around the strap
of his bag. “But I’m… actually meeting someone right now.”
Of course. Kenya tried not to let the devastation make it to his face, keeping
his expression as even as stone. He should have guessed as much; why else would
Satoru be in a courthouse, if it wasn’t for some reas—
The lawyer’s brain came to a sudden, screeching halt.
Satoru in this courthouse. Outside this courtroom. At thistime.
A voice from behind. “Satoru!”
Kenya turned slowly, and watched as a dark figure weaved through the crowd, one
hand held up in greeting. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Satoru’s
smile widen ever so slightly—but Kenya couldn’t take his gaze off Yashiro Gaku,
strutting towards them with a sickeningly sweet smile. He couldn’t resist the
tensing in his shoulders, preparing for war; he managed to barely suppress the
urge to step between them, to create as much distance between Yashiro and
Satoru as he could.
“Sorry I’m late,” he offered, his gaze moving from Satoru back towards the
blond. Yashiro shifted his weight from foot to foot, until his shoulder and
Satoru’s were just barely brushing together. The simple motion made the hair on
the back of Kenya’s neck stand on end, but the prosecutor continued, one
eyebrow raised: “Do you two know each other?”
“We’re—old friends,” Satoru offered, eyes moving between the two of them. “Do
you two work together or something?”
“Adversaries,” Kenya offered, never tearing his eyes away from Yashiro’s face.
A part of him was melting at Satoru’s words—after everything, he still calls
you friend—but he didn’t revel in it. Couldn’t. Not when Yashiro Gakuwas
standing next to him, looking far too close and too comfortable for Kenya’s
liking.
“I suppose you could say that,” the prosecutor laughed, leaning against Satoru
more. The mangaka gave a short exasperated sigh, but a small smile was playing
at his lips, all the same. Yashiro turned his attention back to the subject of
all of Kenya’s sleepless nights, before looking down at the watch on his wrist.
“We should be going, Satoru. I’d hate for them to give up our table.”
Dinner. They’re going out for dinner—
“Alright,” Satoru agreed, before offering Kenya a soft smile. “I’ll—see you
around?”
“Yeah,” Kenya muttered, nodding despite the tightness growing in his throat.
“See you soon, Satoru.”
Something flashed across Yashiro’s eyes for a moment, but by the time Kenya
looked, it was already gone. Still, a chill shivered down his spine,
instinctual and deep. He ignored it, forcing himself to meet Yashiro’s gaze, up
until the prosecutor finally turned to go. And Kenya stayed there, rooted to
the spot, desperately staring at Satoru’s retreating back.
He watched with burning eyes as Yashiro’s knuckles brushed against Satoru’s
own, their fingers tangling, palms pressing affectionately together. Holding
hands until they walked through the courthouse’s double doors, and back out of
Kenya’s life.
 
 
It was weeks before the next court date in the Shiratori Case. Kenya knew he
was early; the courtroom was still closed, the proceedings ahead of his own
still in session. Still, he stood in front of the large mahogany doors, staring
at the polished wood.  He didn’t turn when a shadow appeared in the reflection,
standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his own. Kenya only continued to stare
forward, his muscles tensing underneath his suit.
“Let’s finish this quickly,” the prosecutor hummed, adjusting his cufflinks. “I
have a date afterwards.”
Kenya could practically feel the boiling of his blood, the rage and heartbreak
threatening to burst out of his veins—but he breathed deeply, feeling it cool
and harden into something like resolve. “A man’s life is at stake, Yashiro,” he
replied coldly. “I will not compromise that for dinner plans.”
“Maybe that’s the difference between you and I.” The darker man clasped his
hands behind his back, staring forward towards the courtroom doors. “Nothing is
more important than the person I love.”
The blond’s eyes widened as if struck, before he clenched his jaw and stared
ahead, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “That’s not very heroic of
you.”
A short, biting laugh met his ears. “Haven’t you heard?” Yashiro asked, finally
turning to look in the other lawyer’s direction; Kenya raised his eyes to meet
his gaze, cold black meeting warm brown. A smile was stretching across
Yashiro’s face, and he added quietly: “Heroes always get the short end of the
stick, Kobayashi.”
At that moment, the doors fractured open; people spilled out of the courtroom,
passing by the two men, standing immobile at the threshold. Without another
word, they both stepped forward, pushing through the masses to their respective
sides of the battleground. Kenya settled behind his bench and stared across the
hall, watching as Yashiro straightened out his lapels, entering his element and
preparing for war.
For the past few weeks, Kenya had imagined it. Imagined the man across from him
laying his hands on Satoru,feeling his skin; imagined them kissing, Yashiro’s
teeth assaulting Satoru’s lips, as if he was trying to devour him whole;
imagined Satoru, shuddering and moaning and panting in Yashiro’s bed.
But most of all, he imagined Satoru as he always did in his nightmares—with
crying eyes, the vines and thorns traded in for spider threads, trapping him
beyond Kenya’s reach.
Aya was at his elbow, setting down the files and giving Kenya a sharp glance.
“You ready?”
Kenya didn’t tear his eyes away from the enemy in front of him. “Always.”
He was going to defeat Yashiro—save Shiratori Jun—no matter what.
(And somehow—he got the feeling he was saving Satoru, too.)
***** YashiSatoKen, threesome PWP *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt also available on tumblr .
     Also posted for YashiSatoKen Week. Warnings for dub-con.
How the hell did it come to this?
Satoru’s breath stuttered in his throat; he could feel Yashiro’s tongue swiping
across his chest, the older man’s hand spreading across his skin. It was
strange and weird and Satoru hated to admit that his head was spinning. A fact
that he blamed partly on Kenya’s palm caressing his cheek, his lips brushing
against Satoru’s ear, whispering sweet words of comfort.
He should have known something was up the second the two of them came into his
hospital room together. That alone was strange, even before Yashiro slid the
lock over. Satoru had furrowed his brows and looked questioningly between them,
until Kenya was by his side, gripping the patient’s hand in his own.
“Do you trust us, Satoru?”
He looked between them. Well—he sure as hell didn’t trust Yashiro that much,
but Kenya was a different story. So he swallowed his nerves and nodded, giving
the lawyer’s fingers an assuring squeeze.
Which somehow led to him being pressed down into the bed, with his hospital
robe open and Yashiro’s mouth trailing down towards his stomach. The
politician’s hands were rough, coarse against his skin, but it
wasn’t—unpleasant. Every once in a while, he could swear he felt teeth,nibbling
at the soft flesh of his stomach. His hand flew to his teacher’s shoulder,
gripping the fabric of his suit as he groaned. But Kenya was still there,
gently kissing at his jaw, stroking Satoru’s cheekbone with his thumb. “You’re
doing great,” he whispered encouragingly, teeth grazing against his earlobe.
“So great, Satoru.”
He could feel something brushing just above the band of his pants— and it took
him another moment for him to identify it as tongue, Yashiro’s tongue.His eyes
flew open wide, but before he had a chance to think of making a sound, Kenya’s
lips were there pressing desperately against his own.
Oh,Satoru realized, blinking. I’m kissing Kenya. It was… oddly soft. Nothing
like the biting he could still feel below, hungry and impatient; the contrast
was—dizzying, and Satoru frowned into it, his other hand curling into Kenya’s
shirt. He needed something to hang on to, to focus on, something that made
sense because none of this was making sense anymore—
Through the thin fabric of his hospital clothes, a palm was pressed against the
growing tension between his legs. For a second, Satoru saw stars, his back and
hips jerking in response. He gasped against his friend’s lips, and was met with
a groan of appreciation from the blond; he could feel Kenya’s tongue in his
mouth now, diving in, all eager and affection. For a second, Satoru thought he
was drowning again—engulfed by the feeling, the taste of Kenya in his mouth,
rushing into his lungs.
And then he felt his pants being pulled down.
Satoru jerked away from the kiss, a long line of saliva following after him as
he stared wide-eyed down at Yashiro. The older man was straddling his legs,
gazing hungrily down at his former student. His glasses had been tossed away at
one point, his hair loose and undone; for a second, Satoru thought he looked
like the teacher he remembered, the one who ruffled his hair at the end of the
day.
But those same fingers were on his naked thighs now, feeling along the insides,
gently pushing them apart. Satoru’s weak limbs couldn’t fight it even if they
wanted to—and I don’t know if I want to—slowly moving in circles higher. “You
look amazing,” he hummed, hands trailing up to stroke Satoru’s hipbones. He
couldn’t resist another low groan, turning his head and pressing his forehead
against Kenya’s shoulder. He hated that he was hard,his cock craving—something.
And Yashiro looked hungry to provide. His tongue swiped against his upper lip,
and he watched as that mouth slowly descended, closer to his length. For a
second, there was a moment of panic; he swallowed thickly and weakly pushed at
Yashiro’s shoulder, his voice coming out in a quiet whisper. “W-wait—”
But the politician only grasped at his wrist and pulled it firmly out of the
way, looking—if anything—amused.He could feel a hand wrapping around his other
arm—Kenya—and the blond’s face was nuzzling into his hair, murmuring comforting
nothings into the dark strands. “It’s okay, Satoru,” he assured him, his free
hand returning to stroking the patient’s face. “It will feel good, I promise.”
Testingly, he pulled against both of their grips. With his atrophied muscles,
he couldn’t stop them. A fact that—probably should have disturbed him, but for
some reason it made the ecstasy under his skin spike. There was little he could
do but sit back and stare as Yashiro’s wet lips moved ever lower, until he felt
them brushing against the side of his cock. Satoru threw his head back against
Kenya’s shoulder, giving a short noise between a moan and a whimper, barely
heard past Yashiro’s low chuckle.
“So sensitive,” he murmured, moving to pin Satoru’s captured wrist against the
bed. He kept it there, leaning some his weight on the limb, trapping it against
the mattress. His mouth moved steadily higher, his lips feather-light against
Satoru’s aching arousal, face twitching into a smile. “Inexperienced,” he added
affectionately, before swiping at the tip with his tongue.
Satoru’s whole body started as the teasing continued, feeling Yashiro’s mouth
gently sucking and lapping at the head. One of Kenya’s hands was still wrapped
firmly around his wrist, but the other had moved to his shoulder, keeping him
pressed down to the bed. He hadn’t realized when he had closed his eyes, but
when Satoru opened them, Kenya’s face was there: flushing red and staring down
at him, his lips barely parted. But he couldn’t concentrate on that now—not
when he could tilt his head and still see Yashiro between his legs, grinning
slyly.
At least, until he suddenly took Satoru into his mouth.
Kenya was wrong. It felt betterthan good. He could feel his hips and legs
squirming against his own volition, writhing against Yashiro’s weight, trying
to thrust up into the sensation. It was—it was hot and wet and warm, and he
could still feel that god damn tongue,running along the underside of his cock.
There were lips on his neck, too; Kenya sucking at the skin, leaving open-
mouthed kisses and dark marks along his throat. It was all that Satoru could do
just to keep up, staring through half-lidded eyes at the ceiling, trying to
tell himself just to breathe—
A distant part of his mind was telling him that this was wrong, that it was
odd, was trying to figure out what was going onbut Satoru couldn’t find it in
himself to care. Not even when he could distantly hear the sound of a bottle
popping open, not even when something slick was pressing against his—wait.
“What,” he started, trying to lean up against Kenya’s hands. “What’s th—”
The rest of his voice was cut off by a short cry as he felt the distinct
feeling of a finger, pressing its way inside. Satoru threw himself back onto
the mattress, craning his neck back against the pillow, his face furrowing in
discomfort. Yashiro’s mouth was gone, replaced with his other hand; the two of
them moved in time, rocking Satoru’s senses back and forth. “Y-Ya—shiro—!”
“Be gentler.”
Satoru forced his screwed eyes open, staring bleary-eyed up at Kenya’s shape.
The blond was still holding Satoru steady—his thumb was even stroking little
circles against the bones of Satoru’s wrist—but his gaze was pointed elsewhere.
He glared at their former teacher, who turned to meet the lawyer’s gaze.
Yashiro raised a curiously entertained eyebrow, before slipping a second finger
in, for good measure. “You spoil him,” he muttered, leaning in closer to Kenya,
until their lips were mere inches apart. “And you handled it well enough,
didn’t you?”
(Satoru probably would have put for thought into that statement if Yashiro’s
hands didn’t keep hitting that place,making his whole body jolt with an
unfamiliar pleasure.)
A bit of colour grew on Kenya’s face. “That’s different.”
Yashiro’s smile grew into a smirk, and he looked down at Satoru, twisting both
his hands in a way that made the younger man moan. “He’s stronger than you give
him credit for. Isn’t that right, Spice?”
Don’t drag me into this now.He turned his head to the side, away from them
both; he could hear an amused chuckle rumble from Yashiro’s form, somewhere
down near his thighs. He could vaguely feel a third finger pressing its way in,
stroking and loosening the muscles. For a second, his eyebrows creased; as if
in apology, Yashiro’s grip on his cock tightened, pumping with increased
intensity. Satoru couldn’t imagine doing anything more than gasping against the
pillow, so he didn’t.
“Just remember our deal,” Kenya added, his hand retreating from Satoru’s
shoulder. Instead, he trailed down his chest, leaving tantalizingly light
touches against his skin. The blond was close to Yashiro, now; closer than they
had been before, their foreheads pressed together. There was
something—inherently appealing about it, and Satoru bit down another moan,
chewing on his lower lip.
“My, Kenya,” Yashiro murmured, gingerly brushing their lips together. “Do you
think I’d be that inconsiderate?”
“Yes.”
Yashiro huffed, his fingers retreating, sliding out in a way that left Satoru
suddenly feeling hollow. At least it gave him a chance to catch his breath, and
he watched as Kenya settled between his thighs. A furious blush seemed to have
found a semi-permanent place on his cheeks, even as he gingerly removed his
belt and threw it to the floor. “I’ll go slowly, okay, Satoru?”
Satoru stared up at him and sleepily nodded. There was a hand in his hair,
gently raking through the strands; he turned his eyes up to meet Yashiro’s
soft, affectionate smile. And—oh.
Now he and Yashiro were kissing, which… probably shouldn’t have surprised him
as much as it did. For a moment, he tensed, his entire body turning stock
still; but it melted again with a swipe of Yashiro’s tongue against his lips.
He obligingly opened his mouth, taken aback by how—gentleit was. There was
still a hand in his hair, now gripping firmly, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. For
the first time since this started (whatever ‘this’ was), Satoru felt properly
grounded, and he gave a pleased sigh into the kiss.
It ended all too soon, with Yashiro’s mouth finding a home against Satoru’s
throat, nipping and biting with a low growl. Both of the older man’s hands
found Satoru’s, tangling their fingers together and holding the back of the
patient’s palms down against the mattress. He barely heard Yashiro’s half-
hearted words of caution—“Take a deep breath, Spice”—before Kenya pushed his
way inside.
Satoru’s gasped with a short, strangled cry, his mouth falling uselessly open.
Over Yashiro’s shoulder, he could see Kenya: his face contorted in barely-
restrained lust as he moved slowly, incrementally rocking deeper into him.
Satoru tried to squirm his everything, anything—but Yashiro was holding his
hands down, and it only took a second or two for Kenya to firmly grasp his
knees, locking them in place. So he let himself be taken away by the feeling of
Kenya settling into a rhythm, starting to thrust deeper and deeper; gave
himself over to Yashiro’s mouth, marking his too-sensitive skin.
Eventually, the politician pulled back—only slightly, only enough to stare down
at Satoru’s face with an affectionate huff. “What a lovely expression,” he
noted, trailing the pad of his thumb along his victim’s lower lip. Perhaps on
instinct, but Satoru let his own tongue slip out to meet his fingertips.
Something flashed in Yashiro’s eyes for an instant, and the next thing he knew,
there were fingers in his mouth—twisting around his tongue, pushing deeper,
fucking his mouth.
He gagged against it, because god, he needed to breathe. He could still feel
Kenya inside of him, moving quickly back and forth; every thrust brought with
it another jolt, another low moan torn from his throat. His eyes fluttered at
the sensation, his toes curling helplessly by Kenya’s waist. Yashiro’s other
hand was still in his hair, holding his head steady; it kept him pinned against
the pillow, even as the fingers withdrew, carrying with them long tendrils of
saliva.
“I think,” Yashiro offered, his voice thick and heavy, “we can find better uses
for that mouth of yours.”
A thumb was pushed between his teeth, and Satoru compliantly opened wide,
feeling something much thicker than fingers being pushed past his lips. He
resisted the urge to cough as Yashiro pushed in deeper, pulling Satoru in by
the hand at the back of his head. Instinctually, he reached up to clutch at
Yashiro’s waist—but the older man just snatched his wrist again, pinning it
above Satoru’s head. “Mind your teeth,” he chastised, before slowly pulling out
and repeating the process once again.
“Good,” Yashiro praised, slowly picking up his pace. There was a moment of
relative silence—where the only sounds were Kenya, eagerly rocking into Satoru
below, his breaths coming out in ragged pants—before Yashiro spoke again, the
grin practically visible in his tone. “Like what you see, Kenya?”
Despite the cock still buried in his mouth, Satoru turned his head ever-so-
slightly, to catch the eye of the blond hovering above him. Kenya was watching
with an intensity Satoru had never seen on his face before; he stared as if he
were trying to memorize every detail, his hands tight against Satoru’s thighs,
his hips plunging in faster, deeper.He could feel his own cheeks start to burn
in embarrassment, and if it weren’t for Yashiro’s hand fisted in his hair, he
probably would have turned to hide.
“Satoru,” Kenya whispered, leaning closer. The angle changed, and Satoru
couldn’t resist moaning around Yashiro, the world flashing a dangerously
intense shade of white. The two of them together, staring down at him like
this, so desperate for him—it fuelled his own desire, and he swiped his tongue
along Yashiro’s tip appreciatively. All the while he could still hear Kenya
somewhere above, panting and murmuring like a prayer: “Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—”
The blond suddenly buried himself painfully deep with a low groan, his breath
coming out in a broken shudder. Satoru’s eyes flew open wide and he turned his
head away from Yashiro’s thrusts, feeling the tip press against his cheek as he
scrambled for air. “K-Kenya,” he murmured in turn, feeling the lawyer give a
few frantic, parting thrusts inside. And then they both went still, the other
man affectionately pressing chaste kisses across Satoru’s face.
For a second, Satoru just focused on breathing, on trying to calm the dizziness
that was making the world blur in front of his eyes. But his own ache was still
there, demanding attention between his legs; it was all encompassing, and he
wiggled around Kenya’s softening hardness in vain. It was only another moment
or two before the blond gently pulled out, and Satoru could feel something warm
flowing after him.
Then there were hands on him again. Satoru doesn’t exactly remember how, but he
was sitting now. No, that wasn’t quite right: he was leaning against someone
who was sitting, his own back pressed to their chest. Seeing as Yashiro was in
front of him right now—grasping at a leg with one hand, and adjusting his own
length with the other—he could only guess it was Kenya. He could feel the
blond’s lips against the back of his neck, lips brushing against his skin.
“You’re doing great,” he repeated again, even as Yashiro pressed against his
entrance. “Almost done.”
Kenya had entered in a series of short and soft thrusts, gently spreading
Satoru on his length. Yashiro had none of this patience, or opted not to use
it—he sheathed himself inside with a low groan and one sudden thrust, the likes
of which made Satoru cry out in surprise. Immediately, a palm was slapped over
his mouth—and he heard Kenya’s voice, chastising but affectionate in his ear.
“Shh,” he whispered, his other hand sliding down to Satoru’s length. “Someone
may hear.”
Satoru nodded, but the hand didn’t retreat; Kenya kept it there, and Satoru
groaned into it as Yashiro began to thrust desperately into him. Now he
understood why Kenya went first: Yashiro was wild, rough, greedy—he demanded
everything and took it, leaving Satoru reeling in his wake. He desperately
clung to the politician’s shoulders, fingers shuddering against the fabric. He
gave a short noise when the blond began to steadily stroke his cock, timing it
to the erratic and violent thrusts Yashiro gave.
Satoru looked through half-closed stares up at his former teacher’s face, the
man’s mouth curled into a permanent, perverse grin. For a second, their eyes
met; Yashiro gave a short laugh, giving one more particularly deep thrust into
his former student. “Don’t lose consciousness yet, Satoru.”
He gave a tepid glare in the older man’s direction, his body squirming
uselessly. The feeling that had been building this whole time was reaching a
peak, and it was insufferable. So he rocked into the two of them: thrusted up
into Kenya’s hand before descending onto Yashiro’s cock, desperate for relief.
Kenya’s voice was in his ear, but it wasn’t meant for him. It was a single
word, half-plea and half-command: “Yashiro.”
The politician provided, and leaned forward; Satoru could feel himself being
bent in two, pressed against their bodies. Beside his head, Kenya and Yashiro’s
lips collided. It was a hungry, covetous thing; an almost aggressive display of
tongues and teeth. Satoru gave a low whimper because it was Yashiro and Kenya,
Kenya and Yashiro, they’re both here and he was trapped in the middle,
helplessly writhing in-between.
So he panted into Kenya’s palm, squirmed around Yashiro’s cock, until—until—
Satoru’s whole world went blank as the feeling finally exploded, his whole body
going suddenly taut. He could hear Yashiro’s sharp inhale by his ear, followed
by a couple of frantic, fitful thrusts into the tightness. Mere seconds after
Satoru had thrown himself over the edge, Yashiro had followed after, sinking
his teeth into the crook of Satoru’s neck as he came inside of him.
For what felt like minutes (but was probably seconds), they were all silent,
unmoving. Kenya was the first to break the spell, finally freeing Satoru’s
mouth. Then Yashiro slowly pulled out. Bit by bit, they reorganized themselves;
separated from one desperate pile of lust and limbs and into people again,
dishevelled but individuals and whole. Satoru was only slightly aware that
someone had sorted his clothes back into respectable order, had tucked his
tired body into bed.
He barely acknowledged the hands on his own, in his hair. Vaguely, before
falling asleep, he could have sworn he heard someone whisper something in his
ear.
“See you tomorrow.”
***** Yashisato vs Kensato, gamble (Western AU) *****
Chapter Notes
     This is how I cope with Westworld's finale.
     Also on tumblr here.
The air was thick. He felt it the instant he pushed the swinging doors in,
spurs ringing at his heels: every step felt like he was pushing through
molasses, the syrup dripping hot and heavy against his skin. The blond took a
long, deep breath, tasting two smokes on his tongue. Tobacco, mixed in with the
unmistakable tang of gunpowder. A twinge of copper and whiskey chased after it
all, bitter and strong.
He inhaled the familiar smell of death and sulphur, pulling his hat down over
his eyes. Silently, he moved deeper into the eerily quiet saloon. With every
tread, the stained floorboards creaked under his heels. Normally, at this hour,
the place would be bursting at the seams: travellers, ranchers, bountymen—they
would congregate here, cleaning the sand from their lungs with alcohol and good
cheer. There was none of that joviality here now: even the pianola was quiet,
its ghost keys still.
Through a side-long glance, he caught the bartender’s eye. Osamu was furiously
wiping down a glass, his knuckles shaking and white as they gripped the cup.
There was a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, likely the result of the
bullet hole buried in the mirror behind him. At the sight of the blond, Osamu
pulled his lips tight, shoulders only barely relaxing. Wordlessly, he nodded in
the direction of the only occupied table, tucked into the corner of the room.
Kenya’s hand fell to his hip, fingers gripping the handle of his gun, feeling
the holstered metal against his palm. He slowly strode over, carefully stepping
over the bodies bleeding out underfoot. A quick count told him there were four,
and he was only slightly relieved that he didn’t recognize any of their faces.
Outsiders, then. It was but a minor comfort, one that didn’t take the edge off
his adrenaline as he stepped up to the man responsible.
With his unarmed hand, the blond tilted the edge of his hat back up for a
better look, bangs tumbling in front of his eyes.
There was an oil lamp burning on the table, casting an inky, dim light across
this dark edge of the saloon. If Kenya didn’t know better, he’d think the man
was trying to blend into the shadows themselves; he was almost dressed entirely
in black, from his coat down to his boots. The only exception was the bandana
wrapped around his neck, crimson against the dark. Despite the weak light, his
hat was pulled down low against his eyes, hiding half his face beneath the
brim. What little Kenya could see was a chin dotted in stumble, and the end of
a cigar, glowing red.
Black, gloved hands shuffled the playing cards in his palms: a stilted,
repetitive motion, cards brushing and tumbling against each other. In the
silence, the sound filled the entire room.
“Deputy,” the man began, his teeth gritting the tobacco with a small smile. “To
what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You tell me,” Kenya replied. “I thought I told you never to come back to this
town, Yashiro.”
The older man tilted his chin up slightly, one eye finally visible from under
the shadow of his hat. Kenya hadn’t missed that stare one bit; not since the
day he had seen it last, when a wet red stained the sands of this peaceful
town. He’d chased Yashiro out into the desert himself, that day—shooting at
that retreating back until his gun ran dry. He stopped only when the murderer
and his horse were a dot on the horizon, the harsh western wind slicing kicking
up dust in his wake.
Yashiro tilted his head to the side, his hands still shuffling the playing
cards against his gloved palms. “Can’t a man come and visit old friends?”
“You have no friends here,” Kenya shot back, his hand gripping at his revolver.
“You’re lucky you weren’t hanged for what you did.”
Kenya had wanted to. Stillwanted to. He could still see it, when he closed his
eyes: the blood gushing out of Kayo’s neck, smeared and stained across Satoru’s
shirt. Hiromi’s hands slick with red as he pressed gauze into the wound,
desperately sewing the flesh back together, needle sinking in and out of her
skin. It was a damn miracle she had survived at all: if Satoru hadn’t been
right there, or if Hiromi had been called out of town on business—they probably
would have lost her for good.
But she still carried the scar from that day, thick and white across her
throat. The only consolation was that Satoru had left one on Yashiro too: a
long, thin line across his cheek that Kenya could see even now, cutting clean
through the short hairs of his growing beard.
It wrinkled when Yashiro’s smile widened, even as he set his gun down on the
table, sliding it over towards the blond.
Kenya stared down at the weapon, before looking back up at the criminal’s face.
“An act of good faith,” Yashiro explained, leaning back into his chair. Still,
he shuffled, his hands moving mechanically back and forth. “Take a seat,
deputy. I won’t bite.”
For a long second, the Kenya was still. Then he tentatively reached forward,
claiming the thin revolver in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, the cylinder
flew open. Four empty chambers stared back up at him; one for each of the men
rotting at his feet. The deputy tilted the gun and let the remaining two shots
fall to the floor, splashing in the drying blood. “Is that what you told them?”
he asked, nodding at the corpses.
The older man’s lips twitched upwards as he sucked on his cigar, but remained
silent. Ultimately, Kenya tucked Yashiro’s empty weapon into his belt, out of
the criminal’s reach. With one hand he pulled out a chair, the legs scraping
against the floor—and with the other, he unholstered his own gun. His elbow
rested propped on the tabletop, the muzzle of his weapon pointed in the
criminal’s direction. Kenya let his finger hover off the trigger—but it
remained close in silent warning, an unspoken threat.
If it bothered Yashiro, he didn’t show it. He set the playing cards down on the
table, seemingly satisfied with his mixing. He reached for the half-empty
bottle of whiskey, its green glass glowing in the low lantern light. The older
man raised an eyebrow, lifting the container and speaking around the cigar
clutched in his teeth. “Care for a drink?”
Kenya stared across the table. “Why are you really here, Yashiro?”
“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered, tugging the cork out of the bottle. He
pulled a glass over from one of the other empty seats, pouring its contents out
onto the floor before filling it anew. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted
some company, deputy?”
“No.”
“A shame,” Yashiro hummed, setting his cigar down on an ashtray. A thin line of
smoke climbed towards the ceiling as Yashiro took a slow sip of alcohol, his
eyes never leaving Kenya’s own. The glass was set down with a silent tap, and
Yashiro reclaimed the cards. He stared down at the deck for a moment, before
sliding one over in the blond’s direction, face-down.
“You don’t strike me as a gambling man,” Yashiro noted, looking up from his
hands to meet Kenya’s glare. “Am I wrong?”
Kenya let his finger rest against the trigger guard. “What do you think?”
A small smile spread across Yashiro’s face all the same. “Humour me, then.”
The dark man claimed one face-down card as his own, before flipping over the
top card and placing it on top of Kenya’s. Then he did the same for himself,
his face betraying nothing as the ace of clubs stared back up at him. The blond
didn’t look down at the hand he’d been dealt, only raising an eyebrow in the
other man’s direction. “Blackjack?”
“I’m a man of simple tastes,” the criminal replied, reclaiming his cigar and
clutching it between his teeth. He turned the deck over in his hands, the smoke
slipping from his lips as he spoke. “Do you hit or stay?”
The deputy glared across the table. This was always how Yashiro worked: tricks,
deals, games. Yashiro wouldn’t give him an inch, not unless Kenya at least
pretended to play along. So he gave a brief glance down at the pair of cards in
front of him, bending the corner to read the one lying face-down against the
table. “Stay,” he declared, before turning his attention back to the enemy in
front of him. “Now tell me what you’re really doing here.”
Yashiro shot him an almost disappointed look before looking down at his own
cards, dealing himself another. “I’m not a lying man,” he replied, taking
another long inhale of his tobacco, the tip glowing a fierce red. “It’s a
solitary place, the desert. Only emptiness for miles and miles—it finds a way
of crawling into your soul. That loneliness.”
That sounded like bullshit if he’d ever heard it. “Then you could have gone
anywhere,” Kenya accused, eyes narrowed.
A low chuckle rumbled out of the older man’s throat. “True,” he acknowledged,
adding another card to his growing hand. “I suppose you could say I like to
gamble.” His fingers suddenly stilled, and he gave a short huff, blowing out
smoke as he stared disinterestedly down at his cards. “Ah. Bust.”
“Gambling means risking something to gain what you want,” Kenya started,
watching as Yashiro cleared the cards, “and you took a hell of a risk coming
back here.” He pressed both his elbows against the table now, the end of his
gun aimed directly between a pair of dark eyes. “So what do you want in
Ishikari, Yashiro?”
There was a moment of silence, the lawbreaker’s hands pausing mid-shuffle. Then
his fingers resumed their mixing, a grin spreading wide across the man’s
stubbled jaw. “Do you know what the biggest mistake people make while gambling
is?”
Kenya didn’t answer.
“They think if they have the most chips, they’ve won,” Yashiro replied, lazily
shuffling. “But that isn’t how it works at all. Not really.”
He paused, gripping his cigar and churning the end into the ashtray.
“You could take almost everything the other man has,” he continued, letting the
last of the tobacco smoke escape his mouth. “But if your opponent has the one
chip you want—the one thing you truly desire, above all else—well.” Yashiro
smiled, finally ending his shuffle with a definitive thunk as the deck met the
table. “Wouldn’t you say he’s the one winning, in the end?”
The deputy raised another eyebrow. “They’re just chips,” he pointed out. “What
makes one more special than any other?”
A low, short laugh bubbled out of the criminal’s throat. “I’ve been asking
myself that all my life,” he replied, pushing the deck to the side. “It took
being stranded in that desert for me to finally understand. The way one thing
can stick in your mind. How it festers in there, like a corpse rotting in the
sun.”
Yashiro leaned forward, mimicking Kenya’s pose, with his elbows propped against
the wood. His gloved hands lay folded against the tabletop, one of his eyes
still obscured by the low brim of his hat. But the light from the lamp played
off the one Kenya could see, dyeing it a wild red and orange colour. “Let’s
take our situation, Kenya,” he offered, a smirk plastered across his face. “I
have no weapon. Your gun is loaded and pointed at my head. Our dear Sheriff
Sawada is probably on his way with more men as we speak. Everything is in your
favour.”
A chill was rushing down Kenya’s spine, and his finger slipped off the trigger
guard, threading through the hole.
“But the way I see it,” Yashiro said, opening his hands invitingly. “I’m still
winning.”
“Because you think you have something,” Kenya accused. “Something that will let
you walk out of here.”
Yashiro’s smile widened. “I told you, deputy,” he offered, lifting his glass in
a mock toast. “I’m a gambling man.”
The blond breathed slowly through his nose, taking in the scent of blood and
cigar smoke. Yashiro took a long sip before setting the whiskey back down, the
amber liquid sloshing against the sides. Then, he slowly motioned to the chest
pocket of his coat, one eyebrow raised and lips quirked up in that same smirk.
“May I?”
Kenya stared down at the pocket, small and flat. The criminal could very well
have hidden a compact blade in there; there was more than enough space. But
trying to draw a knife now—with the barrel of Kenya’s gun trained on him,
glinting dangerously in the lamplight—would be akin to suicide. Yashiro was the
scum of the desert, a scourge on their dry and desolate lands—but he wasn’t an
idiot. Unfortunately. So Kenya looked up and met the murderer’s eyes, giving a
short nod.
“Thank you,” Yashiro said, slipping his gloved fingers into his coat.
There was a moment of blind searching, the silence settling in the impossibly
thick air. Kenya forced himself to keep his finger off the trigger, to keep his
aim steady and true. His instincts were beating wildly in his chest, telling
him that Yashiro was dangerous—a killer, something to be put down. That he’d
killed four men tonight alone, that he should end this farce right now. But his
logic was there, quelling it all down. As much as he hated to admit it, a part
of him was—curious. No, concerned.
Kenya buried it all under his skin, keeping his mind blank and breathing slow.
But he still adjusted his grip on his gun, making sure it was comfortable in
his hand. Just in case.
Yashiro’s smile widened as his fingers pulled away from the pocket. With a
deliberate gentleness, he gently placed something down between them. A light,
clinking sound met Kenya’s ear; the noise was slightly metallic as it met the
wood. As much as he wanted to see, Kenya stared coldly at the criminal’s face
until both of Yashiro’s hands had retreated, lying complacently flat against
the tabletop.
Then—and only then—did he look down at Yashiro’s gamble, sitting in the center
of the table.
It was so strange, it took his mind to process the item for what it was.
A pair of spectacles. The wire frames were bent, the glass marred by sand and
dirt. Thin white scratches crossed the circular lenses: one had completely
shattered in the frame, a shard missing from the uppermost edge. But that
wasn’t what caught his eye: Kenya could see the specks of something red
splashed across the glass. The smallest, barest hint of blood, staining parts
of the copper frames a dry, caked-on crimson.
The rusted gears in Kenya’s mind creaked to life, groaning and screeching
beneath his skull.
He snapped to his feet, his chair clattering noisily behind him. He could hear
it crash against one of the corpses before falling to meet the floor, skidding
in the cooling blood at their feet. With fiercely narrowed eyes and a chill
spreading across his sweat-slicked skin, he leaned forward, until the cool
barrel of his gun was kissing in the skin of Yashiro’s forehead. His own voice
was unfamiliar in his throat, grating and desperate, growled between clenched
teeth. “Where is he?” 
Yashiro tilted his hat back to accommodate the firearm pressed against his
head, offering a deceptively innocent smile up at the deputy. “Why, I don’t
know what you mean.”
“No more games,” Kenya ordered, drawing back the hammer on his gun. “What have
you done to him?”
“Ah. That’s the question, isn’t it?” With calculated slowness, Yashiro reached
for the bottle of whiskey. Calmly, he filled up his glass, the liquid gurgling
out of the container’s narrow neck. He reclaimed his drink, tipping it in
Kenya’s direction before taking a long sip of the alcohol. “Strictly speaking,
there are three possibilities.”
Kenya tried to keep the shaking out of his arm, off the trigger.
“First,” Yashiro continued, holding up a slim gloved finger, “is that I have
done nothing to your friend. Maybe he dropped his glasses on the road and I
happened to pick them up. Maybe they aren’t his at all. For all you know, he’s
still where you left him: in that little white house just outside of town,
tucked safely into bed.”
He knows where Satoru lives. He knows—
“Two.” The criminal tapped his finger continuously against the side of his
glass, that permanent smile still settled on his dry and chapped lips. “I shot
him dead. Simple as that.”
Kenya felt a fierce burning boiling his blood, hotter than the summer heat.
Satoru’s house was a ways outside of town: if there was a gunshot, they—no one
would have heard. No one. He wracked his brain, trying to think of how long it
had been since he’d seen Satoru with his own eyes. Tried to imagine every
scenario that wasn’t Satoru, his blood staining the porch of his mother’s
ranch. Tried not to imagine the fields where they used to play, the grass
swaying around Satoru’s corpse. Tried not to think of the shattered glass in
those frames, the lenses marked with that horrible red.
“If either of those are true—” Yashiro paused, taking another shallow drink of
the whiskey. “—then you can pull that trigger and be done with it right now. It
wouldn’t make a difference.”
God, Kenya wanted to. But he forced himself not to, his voice cold as frost.
“And three?”
The smile finally shattered: it spread into something sicker, darker than a
simple smirk. There was a slimethere now, seeping into his features—something
slick like oil and bitter as venom. It perturbed something deep in Kenya’s
soul, fuelling and mixing with his thinly-contained rage. Where a man should be
sitting was a snake: something scaled and cold-blooded, at home in thick black
muck, its tongue darting out to taste the filth for itself.
“Three.” Yashiro leaned forward, until the muzzle of Kenya’s revolver was
buried in his forehead. “I have him.”
The blond adjusted his grip, the tip of his firearm leaning heavily against the
older man’s skull. “‘Have him’?”
“Maybe I left him with some companionsof mine,” Yashiro grinned, his fingers
entwining on the tabletop. “Or perhaps I locked him away: somewhere deep and
dark, a place with no food or water in sight. There would be plenty of places
to hide him. The desert is vast, after all.”
Kenya could see it too clearly. Satoru, bound and gagged in some criminal’s
den, thrown in the back of a dark caravan headed to nowhere. Surrounded by
bandits and outlaws, trapped in their hands. Or abandoned in an old mining
shaft, desperately trying to climb back towards the only sliver of light he
could see. Maybe left tied to some post in the middle of the Badlands, the sun
and wind beating down against his shoulders, until the blood-stained ropes were
the only thing keeping him standing.
He could search for days, weekswithout finding him. Until nothing was left of
Satoru but a used bullet, a pile of bones, and the vultures circling overhead.
“If that’s the case, killing me would be sealing his fate as well.” Yashiro’s
fingers danced across the rim of his glass, the dark leather on his fingertip
becoming steadily wet with whiskey. The scar on his face wrinkled as his grin
widened. “Wouldn’t you agree, deputy?”
The blond let out a long, shuddering breath. He needed to stay composed, to
think this through. He knew he would need some strong alcohol and a certain
friend by his side before he’d feel anywhere close to alright, but he had
neither right now. But just one inhale was enough to steady his hand, to let
the rationality settle like sediment over this thoughts. At the very least,
Kenya could say he was calm, his voice even. “You won’t tell me which one is
true.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a game otherwise,” Yashiro noted, leaning back in his
seat. His hand still lightly gripped the glass, twisting it back and forth
against the wood. “It’s as you said. Gambling is about risk and reward. The
only question is,” he started, looking up to meet the blond’s eyes, “if you
call my bluff.”
Kenya stared at him for a long moment, before turning his eyes back down to the
glasses. Despite what Yashiro said, those were Satoru’s. He had no doubts about
that. He couldn’t count the amount of times he’d seen the other man wipe his
lenses on his shirt, rubbing out the dirt and sand. They must have spent
hundreds of days out on the plains, Satoru’s face dirty and sand-streaked
everywhere but around his eyes.
It didn’t tell him much, but it told him enough. Satoru wasn’t careless enough
to leave his glasses lying in the middle of the road. He couldn’t shoot
straight without them, and replacing them was a three-day trek each way to the
nearest city. And if Yashiro had stolen them, had confronted Satoru for such a
miniscule reason as to steal them, there’s no way he wouldn’t rush to tell the
deputy that Yashiro was lurking near town.
As much as he hated to admit it—as much as everything in him wanted to embrace
the comforting lie—Kenya was sure.
Satoru wasn’t safe at home right now. Not if Yashiro had these.
Which left two options. Neither of which were good. But Satoru could still be
breathing at the end of one of them. Beaten and broken, captured and
captive—but alive.Kenya forced himself not to clutch at that future, to keep
thinking about what probablyhappened and not what he prayedhad. But Yashiro’s
own words were burrowing into his skull, digging into the bone and the brain.
Echoing in his ear.
Would you believe me if I said I wanted some company, deputy?
It would mean believing Yashiro. Believing that this man—the very definition of
cruel, of deceit and lies—had told a single truth since he sat down at this
table. Believing that this snake-like excuse for a human being could feel
something like—
It finds a way of crawling into your soul. That loneliness.
It didn’t make sense. Even if he did buy into that lie, why Satoru?Satoru, who
had thwarted him once before; Satoru, who had challenged Yashiro’s gun with
only a rancher’s pitchfork, charging to Kayo’s rescue; Satoru, who had left
that long scar on the murderer’s face. He was the last person Yashiro should
seek out for company.It was far more likely that Yashiro had killed him in some
petty display of vengeance, of alleged wrongs finally righted.
And yet, only four bullets had been used in Yashiro’s gun. Kenya knew he could
have just reloaded in-between—knew that Satoru’s glasses were broken and
covered in blood, clear evidence of foul play.
He didn’t have enough evidence. That was the point: Kenya had to make a
decision based on Yashiro’s bluff alone. But there was more to it than a
gamble, more than just Yashiro’s game.The man was still sitting there,
patiently drinking his alcohol as he watched the deputy. This was a test.
Either Yashiro’s life ended here, or he had—insurance. He’d killed four men
tonight, maybe more; if Kenya let him walk out of here now, then he’d just be
confirming what Yashiro thought he already knew.
That as long as he had his “one chip”—had Satoru—Kenya would be powerless to
stop him.
The blond knew what Satoru would want him to do. Could imagine him standing in
front of him, face serious, telling him in no uncertain terms that Yashiro
couldn’t be allowed to go free.
Kenya grit his teeth, his hand gripping the revolver tightly, until his fingers
cried out in pain.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The sound exploded in his ears, filling the saloon with compact thunder. The
explosion in the chamber shuddered up his arm like a stampede, echoing in his
bones. The scent of smoke poured into his nose, the hot vapour coiling white in
front of his eyes.
Through the haze, he met Yashiro’s gaze. The man hadn’t moved a muscle, not
even when the deputy’s bullet lodged itself in the wall, mere inches away from
the criminal’s smiling face.
A chunk of wood fell from the column, splinters falling lamely to the floor.
“I swear on my father’s grave,” Kenya growled, “I will hunt you to the ends of
the earth, Yashiro.”
The killer continued to grin up at the deputy, before pushing himself to his
feet with a smile. “I will be waiting for it, deputy,” he hummed, tipping his
hat in mock politeness. “You’ll cover my tab, won’t you?”
Kenya clenched his jaw, and kept his gun trained on the man’s back. A low
whistle was filling the air as Yashiro marched to the exit, a nursery rhyme
sung out of tune. It only stopped when Yashiro paused, one black hand hovering
on each of the swinging doors. “By the way,” he added, twisting his neck to
peer over his shoulder. “Keep the glasses. Consider it a gift.”
Briefly, he adjusted the lapels on his coat, flipping the collar up around his
neck. Then, as quietly as he’d come, Yashiro slipped back out into the night,
the doors swaying silently in his wake.
Kenya kept his gun trained on the entrance for a couple of heartbeats more,
before finally letting his hand drop to his side. Eventually, he turned to
stare at the bartender. Osamu’s face must have mimicked his own, in some
measure; drawn, pale, the dawning realization wreaking havoc across his
features. The blond swallowed thickly, his fingers useless and limp around his
gun. The smell from his shot was still hovering in the air, punctuating the
silence that was stretching between them.
Kenya wanted to say something. Wanted to offer some comfort, some assurance,
some promise that everything would be okay. That he hadn’t just given Yashiro
everything he’d wanted, leaving the killer to walk free. Even though Kenya’s
lips were parted, his dry tongue twisting to form the words, his voice wouldn’t
come. He had nothing to give Osamu, nothing to say to staunch the ache growing
under their skin.
His eyes dropped back to the table. Satoru’s glasses glinted in the lamplight,
solitary and waiting. Kenya’s fingers gingerly reached out for them, brushing
against the cold frames; he held them gently between his hands, guilt and
regret burrowing deep and hollow into his chest.
In a couple of moments, he’ll find his horse. He’ll desperately gallop up to
Satoru’s house with his gun on his hip and desperation in his voice. He’d pray,
more than he ever has, that he was wrong: that Satoru was there, safe and sound
and sleeping obliviously between his sheets. Then he’ll find Sawada and they’ll
figure out what to do, how to hunt down the shadow skirting just beyond the
borders of their town.
But right now, he just held Satoru’s glasses in his hands, letting the cold
blood at his feet seep into his boots.
***** Yashisato, omegaverse *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
People often asked Satoru what it was like, waking up after fifteen long years.
They wanted to know whether he saw light at the end of a long, dark tunnel;
whether he heard anything when he was asleep; what thoughts went through his
head while he lay there, eyes closed and unmoving. More often than not, Satoru
was able to answer with a little shrug of his shoulders. It took days before
his eyes had adjusted, so he didn’t see anything. His ears were the same—he
hadn’t even heard when his mother had wished him that first good morning. And
as for what he thought—
Nothing. One moment, Satoru had been leaving his house in the morning,
frantically looking for his recorder and racing off to school. The next, he was
in a hospital bed. There was no in-between: just the nothingness of sleep, deep
and dark and over in an instant.
But what he does remember, from the moment he first became aware of himself
again, was that he wasn’t alone.
Before any of his other senses, Satoru had felt it: something that wasn’t
himself, mingling with his mind. A gentle hand grazing against his soul,
curious and holding its breath, not yet daring to hope. And though he couldn’t
move his limbs, couldn’t even bat an eyelash, he weakly reached back out to
it—and Satoru felt his own consciousness tangling with the other, offering a
feeble little nudge in the void.
And then too much—devotion and awe and unrestrained euphoria—crashed into him
like a tidal wave. The presence pushed its way into his head, wrapping Satoru’s
thoughts up in an embrace that was desperate and tight. It clutched at him in a
crushing, suffocating grip—yet Satoru found himself sinking into it all the
same, feeling these feelings that were not his own, too weak to fight the pure
joy he felt humming across the bond.
It’s you, it whispered, disbelief etched in every word. You’re awake.
It was that familiar, comforting voice that lulled him back under.
 
 
Everything smelled. The next time Satoru felt himself stirring, that’s what hit
him first: all the scents that were now assaulting his senses, stirring him
awake. The muscles in his face twitched, his nose curling in displeasure. For
some reason, everything carried an aroma, even the air itself, and it made his
head spin. Made him want to turn and bury his face in his pillow until he fell
back into a deep, scentless sleep.
But he couldn’t even move his head, let alone do anything as ambitious and
moving. So with every inhale, he worked at identifying what he could:
antiseptic, laundry detergent, fresh plastic, cleaning supplies. And distantly,
buried under it all, something else: something inherently softer, comforting
and warm. Something that smelled like cooked rice and home.
Slowly, Satoru peeled his eyes back, only barely managing to stare at the
blurry world beyond his eyelashes. A dark shape moved into his vision, and a
voice came to him muddled and distorted, as if he were listening from
underwater. He couldn’t make out the words, but Satoru knew that sound—and his
aching voice left him in a sigh. “M…om…?”
Her hand slipped into his, giving a reassuring squeeze. And in his skull, that
not-him was also there, dutifully wrapping his anxiety in a warm blanket of
emotion. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it would do; Satoru let himself
go, floating somewhere between asleep and awake, wrapping himself in his
mother’s scent. Feeling her fingers, tracing soft little circles against the
back of his hand.
Days must have passed, but Satoru didn’t remember them; there were just bits of
awareness, bubbles occasionally rising to the surface of his mind. One moment
and his mother was there, the next she wasn’t; sometimes he could see light,
blinding and bright—and sometimes none. The only constant was that feeling of
someone else: always there, always coaxing and comforting, soothing and
smoothing out the frantic thoughts in his head.
Well, that—and Kitamura-sensei.
Satoru watched the doctor bustle around his hospital room, inspecting machines
and replacing IV bags with single-minded purpose. He liked Kitamura. He was
little straightforward and lacking in tact, but the honesty was refreshing. His
mother, the nurses—Satoru could tell they were side-stepping his questions,
placating him with a smile before changing the topic. At least Kitamura didn’t…
coddle.
Satoru observed the doctor with a certain detached interest, his head leaned
back against the pillows. His body still wasn’t strong enough to move on its
own, so all he could really do was gaze at the world from his bed. Powerless to
do anything but watch the revolving door of specialists and orderlies, cycling
in and out of his hospital room.
At least Kitamura smelled better than the others.
“That’s probably because I’m a beta,” the doctor replied, tapping at the IV
drip.
Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Satoru stared pointedly down at his hands, his fingers twitching restlessly
against the blankets. Kitamura was silent for a moment as he stared down at his
clipboard, flipping through the charts and check-up notes. He eventually broke
the silence with carefully measured words, never tearing his eyes from the
page. “Can I ask you something, Satoru?”
He weakly nodded, his neck aching with the effort. “Sure.”
“Do you remember when you presented?”
Satoru stared at him for a long second, his mouth parting. Of course, he’d
assumed he must have presented at some time—he wasn’t a child anymore, and his
body had gone through puberty, even if his mind wasn’t along for the ride. But
as for the moment itself, like so many others, it was lost in the haze of his
memories. Just one more piece of himself, pulverized by his jumbled mind. “No.”
Kitamura paused, before letting the papers flip back into place. “I see. That’s
fine.”
Satoru frowned, his shoulders shifting against the mattress. Now that they were
talking about it, he’d be lying if he said some part of him wasn’t curious.
He’d wanted to ask this entire time just why the world seemed to smell so
strong, and it was increasingly clear that Sachiko wasn’t going to tell him. So
he steeled his resolve and stared his doctor in the face, his stomach tight.
“What,” he started, swallowing the croaking in his throat. “What am I?”
The physician tensed for a long moment, not tearing his eyes away from his
clipboard, as if it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
Satoru could practically see the wheels in the man’s mind turning, before he
tucked his notes back under his arm with an awkward shuffle. “An omega,” he
answered.
Satoru’s brain stuttered, and he blinked up at his doctor. “A—what?”
“Omega,” Kitamura repeated, staring Satoru in the face. “You presented a week
or two before the accident. I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”
“Oh.”
And for some reason, Satoru—wasn’t as surprised as he should have been, either.
Just like when he had seen his new, adult face, the shock just… didn’t come.
The truth settled into his brain and bones easily, like an answer he had known
all along—like a puzzle piece finally slotting into place. Satoru stared down
at his lap, trying to ignore that presence that was still brushing
affectionately against his own, practically purring in his head.
“I, uh,” he started, struggling for something to say. “I thought only girls
could be omegas.”
Kitamura stared at him for a long second, before pulling up one of the fold out
chairs and lowering himself into it. “99.9 per cent of the time, you’d be
right,” he explained. “It’s exceptionally rare, but male omegas do exist. And
you’re one of them.”
Satoru’s nose crinkled. “Is that why everything smells so much?”
Kitamura tried to hold onto his impassive stare, but the corners of his mouth
were twitching up. “Basically. Your hormones are playing a bit of catch-up, so
your body is kicking itself into overdrive. It’ll settle down eventually.”
Thank god. But that wasn’t the worst of his concerns, and Satoru’s fingers
twisted and tangled nervously in the sheets. “So, does that mean I can get—” He
stopped, the word clogging in his throat, but he forced it out anyway. “P-
pregnant?”
“No,” Kitamura promised. “You’re an omega, but your body is still male. Your
hormones and biology just—aren’t really talking to each other.” He paused and
adjusted his glasses. “Think of it like this: your body is tricking itself into
thinking it can carry a child, even if you can’t. So you’ll still be having
heats, unfortunately.”
He leaned his head back against the pillows, feeling a shiver crawl over his
skin. An omega heat: Satoru couldn’t remember ever experiencing it for himself,
but he could just barely feel snippets of it, the muscle memory buried deep in
his nerves. The feeling of that never-ending hot, boiling under his skin—the
primal need for something to take the fever away. The desperate scramble to get
rid of the ache coiled in his core, by any means necessary.
By anyone.
Something possessive and dark growled low through the bond, and that was all
the warning he got before the lust poured in. It hit him like a wall, knocking
the air out of his lungs. It was—Satoru, my omega, my mate—making his body
burn, and he panted desperately against the feeling. But it was so hard to
breathe when he could sense that gaze on his naked skin, when he could feel
teeth bearing down on his throat. A cold leather glove, brushing against his
cheek—
Satoru squeezed his eyes shut and gasped, his heart monitor jumping wildly. He
needed to calm down, he needed—need, yes, please—needed to get this under
control. His head was trying to reign it in, but it was like riding a
mechanical bull; all he could do was hold on to whatever logic he had, trying
not to get bucked by the foreign lust flowing in his veins.
A glass was pressed against his lips, and Satoru found himself gratefully
swallowing down water. It was a cold splash to his system, shocking it back to
reality. As he drank, he could feel the intruding thoughts retreating—pulling
back with little half-apologies scattered in their wake.
When Satoru opened his eyes again, there was still only Kitamura, frowning as
he pulled the empty cup back. “Fujinuma—?”
“Sorry,” he murmured, gratefully inhaling oxygen as he sank into the pillows.
He could feel a thin sweat covering his skin; he at least wished he had the
strength to wipe it all off for himself. He forced his eyes open again, half-
staring at the ceiling as his heart steadied out of its staccato rhythm.
“That—wasn’t me.”
The doctor’s scowl deepened. “Wasn’t… you?”
Satoru weakly nodded. His body felt cold, colder than before—all of him soaked
and damp, craving someone’s touch and shivering without it. “It’s like,” he
started, brows furrowing, “like there’s… someone in my head sometimes.”
All the time, really—but Kitamura didn’t need to know that.
“I… see,” the doctor murmured, his eyes narrowing as he gripped at his chin.
For a long second, he just stared at Satoru, something calculating passing
through his gaze—but then it was gone, and Kitamura was pushing himself to his
feet with a small sigh. “I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine this
afternoon, if you feel up to it.”
Which was code for you are absolutely seeing another specialist, whether you
like it or not—so Satoru just nodded along, eyes closing. “Okay,” he murmured,
sinking under the blanket. Right now, all he wanted to do was rest. Wanted to
curl up on himself in his bed and wrap his arms around himself, as if he could
trick himself into thinking he wasn’t alone in the sheets.
He’d deal with the afternoon when he got there.
 
 
But later and eventuallyalways ended up turning into now—and Satoru wished he’d
bothered to ask Kitamura even a single question about this whole thing. As it
was, he was already caught unaware: after forcing down some food and sleeping
most of the afternoon away, he’d been woken up by a knock on his hospital door.
Satoru had barely managed to wake up when the door slid open, and the smell of
sugar cookies jumped into his nose.
Satoru stared at the new face, a bit of hair still stuck in the drool drying on
his cheek. She wasn’t like any of the other doctors that had visited him so
far: there was no lab coat, no stethoscope, not even a clipboard—just a little
notepad and a warm smile, a cozy sweater draped around her frame. She looked…
pleasant. And disarming. Even her scent screamed comfort: sweet and slightly
maternal, inherently omega. She was charming, in every sense of the word.
A little toocharming, actually. Every alarm bell in Satoru’s skull was ringing,
flashing neon warning lights, and he felt his weak body tensing under the
blankets.
“It’s nice to meet you, Fujinuma-kun,” she started, clicking her kitten-themed
pen as she took a seat by his bed. “Your attending physician, Kitamura-sensei,
asked me to have a quick chat with you. Is it okay if I asked you a few
questions?”
Satoru continued to stare at her warily, his hands curling into fists. “I…
guess.”
“Great!” She started brightly, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. “We’ll get
this over with quickly, okay?” She pressed the nib to her notebook, never
taking her eyes off her patient. “Kitamura said sometimes you feel like you’re
not alone, is that right?”
Satoru blinked at her, his mouth parting a little. Is that what this was about?
As if sensing his surprise, that other presence gave him a small and curious
tug, as if confirming that Satoru was still there. For the moment, he ignored
it; the specialist was still staring at him, waiting with a patient but
expecting glance. Satoru couldn’t escape the feeling that he was being
assessedsomehow, and it made his mouth go dry.
“I, uh,” he started, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, sort of.”
She immediately began to scribble blindly on the page, nodding knowingly. “What
would you say it feels like?”
He furrowed his brow. It was a good question; he’d never taken the time to
really try to dissect the feeling, but he gave himself the luxury now.
Steadily, he began poking at the foreign existence that hung in his head like a
fog. He’d often felt it making itself known, but this time, it was Satoru who
pulled at the sensation—and was immediately rewarded with an eager and
overflowing affection, warmth spilling into his chest.
Satoru stopped and stared down at his hands. When he was a little kid, he and
Atko had made a telephone made out of cans and a piece of string. To a four-
year-old, it had been the coolest thing: that he could feel Atko’s voice,
thrumming up the thread and into his ear. For days he would insist on only
speaking to his mother through the make-shift toy, feeling the vibrations
humming against his little palms.
It was something like that—but that seemed too difficult to explain, so he
flexed and unflexed his stiff fingers, feeling the phantom thrum. “Like… a
thread, I guess.” It felt like a terrible comparison, a huge oversimplification
of whatever this was—but it was the closest thing he could think of.
The doctor tilted her head to the side, continuing to frantically take notes.
“What’s at the other end?”
“Someone that’s not me,” he muttered with a small shrug, “with feelings that
aren’t mine.”
“But you feel them?”
He nodded again, feeling the affection at the other end of the telephone
steadily twisting into concern. As much as he could, he tried to ignore
it—tried to force back down his own guilt welling up in response, threatening
to spill over. “They’re not my emotions,” he said, “but I can’t help but have
them anyway.”
She gave a small hum at that, stopping suddenly and staring at his face. For a
long second, she just scrutinized his expression, her tone measured and
careful. “Fujinuma-kun,” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Is it there right
now?”
Satoru paused for a second, toying with the end of his blanket. “Yeah.”
“I see,” she muttered, pressing the end of her pen against her lips. “How long
have you had this, again?”
“Since I woke up.” And probably before. He didn’t remember ever experiencing
this feeling, but that didn’t mean much; there were still plenty of blank
spaces in his brain. The memories were in there somewhere—he knew that, at
least—but they were marred and burnt-out, like damaged film reel. No matter how
much he tried to get it to play, all he saw was the black. Who knew what his
mind was or wasn’t hiding from him.
The specialist gave a low hum, her pen tapping against her chin. For some
reason, the sound put him on edge, a twitching and anxious restlessness
crawling under his skin. That formless other person was immediately there, all
guilt and worry and protective, and Satoru tried to push them back—tried to
create distance between him and the “other” in his head.
“Okay,” she said suddenly, dropping her hand back into her lap. “If you’re
willing, Fujinuma-kun, I would like you to try something.”
He eyed her carefully. “Something…?”
“You said it was like a thread,” she confirmed. Carefully, she set her pen and
notebook down against her thighs, balancing them in her lap. With two fingers,
she formed a crude imitation of scissors, snipping at the air. “If you’re
comfortable with the idea, I would like you to try to cut it.”
For some reason, the words stabbed him through like a knife, his breath
snagging painfully in his lungs. Something in him was snarling at the very
idea, something he couldn’t blame on that other presence. Though he didn’t know
why, Satoru knew that this feeling—this defensive, protective, aggressive
something—was entirely his own. His shoulders rose like hackles as his
breathing quickened, adrenaline beginning to beat through his veins. “Why?”
She didn’t seem surprised by his reaction, but he could pick up her scent,
cranked up to eleven—sickeningly, pacifyingly sweet and soothing. It only made
him more on edge, his eyes narrowing as she spoke. “I’m just curious if you
think you’re able to,” she said easily. “If it’s not something you feel up to,
then you can forget I said anything.”
Satoru’s lips twisted into a frown. His gut reaction was no, absolutely not,
who are you to even say that—but even he didn’t understand why he was feeling
that way. And it wasn’t like there weren’t times he wished he was actually
alone in his own head, free to think and feel without invisible eyes following
his every move. A part of him undeniably craved that privacy, that autonomy.
Was it really such a bad idea, then?
His head was still roaring at the idea, but he squeezed his eyes shut, trying
to breathe past the growling in his skull. “Okay,” he muttered. “I’ll try.”
“Alright,” she said, her smile bright and easy-going. “Take your time. There’s
no need to rush it.”
Right. Satoru let his eyes fall half-lidded as he began to blindly feel for the
intangible string that tied him to the stranger at the other end. As if on cue,
the presence gave a curious hum—and Satoru could feel the thread, reverberating
between them. Felt it tangling around the fingers that only existed in his
mind, the cord sliding over his palms.
His eyebrows scrunched together as he confirmed its shape for himself, testing
its strength, tugging and pulling and exploring. The outsider was there,
watching attentively, half-curious and half-amused—but standing respectfully
back, giving Satoru the space to investigate to his heart’s content. Which he
did: it was the first time he thought of this thing as a thing,something he
could grasp for himself. Something he could control and manipulate.
Slowly, he took a long, deep breath, holding that thread in one hand—and
imagining a pair of scissors in the other. Imagined the feel of the metal,
heavy and cold; imagined sliding the string between the blades, his fingers
ready to snap down. For the briefest of seconds, Satoru hesitated; he paused to
take a long, deep breath, steadying his nerves.
There was a jolt, as if the string was suddenly pulled taut, before—
Satoru’s eyes shot open, and he screamed.
His hands snapped to his head as pain,real pain speared into his skull. Someone
had stabbed a red-hot iron between his eyes, carving and slicing up his brain;
had taken a sledgehammer to his head, smashing the bone to bits. The pain even
strangled his lungs, twisting and wringing the air out of his chest—but his
mouth was still open, choking for air, he couldn’t breathe—
There were hands on him, pushing him against the mattress, but he couldn’t feel
any of it; voices that were calling his name, but he couldn’t really hear them.
All there was was that screeching in the very core of himself, full of betrayal
and rage and heartbreak and no, not ever, I won’t let you go, don’t you dare
try to leave me! The words were like claws, reaching across the bond—and they
buried themselves into Satoru’s soul, the talons digging in deep.
A tight and strangled noise tore itself out of his throat. Satoru shook his
head frantically, trying to push both the pain and the voice away. His feet
kicked wildly against the empty air because he needed it gone,needed it to
stop,begging through the bond to please, make it stop, I can’t—
Something pierced the base of his neck, and everything went blissfully black.
 
 
For the hundredth time, he woke up to the sound of beeping.
Satoru stared blankly at the dark ceiling, his vision unfocused and eyes only
half-open. There was a hissing in his ears, and it took him longer than he
should have to identify it: the sound of oxygen, rushing into the mask on his
face. He was too tired to even turn his head, his whole body heavy like
molasses and lead—but he could hear the whirling of at least half a dozen
machines, scattered and stationed around his hospital bed.
And, more distantly: voices, muffled by the closed door separating his room
from the hallway. Everything—his limbs, his mind, even the thread—it was all
numbed, but he still strained his ears, trying to catch snippets of
conversation. His mother’s voice cut through the haze easily, strained with a
barely-contained fury. “What the hell happened?”
“I asked Satoru to try to sever the bond.” Was that… the specialist? Her voice
sounded—different. Professional and clipped. Ithad been an act, then. “If it
was an accidental bonding, then the bond might not have been purposefully
maintained. In which case, he should have been able to sever it easily.”
“Obviously, that’s not the case.” Ah, Kitamura was there too.
“So,” his mother started, her tone tight, “you’re telling me this bastard wants
to be bonded with my son?”
“It would appear that way,” the specialist said. “For one reason or another,
the culprit has maintained his bond with Satoru and kept it strong, despite him
being comatose for fifteen years. And he seems unwilling to let that drop now.”
“I’ve spoken with the police investigators in charge of Satoru’s case,”
Kitamura added. “We’ve come to the mutual agreement that it would be best to
have an officer stationed outside of Satoru’s room from now on.”
There was a long, tense moment of silence, before Sachiko spoke again. “You
think he’s going to come for him.”
“If he feels so strongly about being bonded to Satoru,” Kitamura said, speaking
slowly, “then we shouldn’t take any chances.”
Bonded…? And who… was coming for who? Satoru blinked up at the ceiling, trying
to detangle the words, but it was no good. It was all jumbled together like a
knot of string, his muddled brain unable to work it through. On the other side
of the door, his mother gave a harsh sigh, before her voice dipping low to a
whisper. “How is he?”
“Sedated,” Kitamura said. “It was a pretty intense shock to his system, but
there isn’t any permanent damage, as far as we can tell. But he’ll need plenty
of rest, I’m sure.”
“Fujinuma-san,” the specialist interrupted. “There are ways to… silence a bond
without severing it. Once he is feeling strong enough, I think it would be best
if Satoru familiarizes himself with them.” Her voice dipped lower, a bit of
concern seeping into her tone. “Bonds are powerful things. If your son is
bonded to the one behind his incident… it would be best to minimize his
influence before it gets worse.”
Before… what got worse? Satoru could feel his eyelids starting to droop. He
tried to force himself to stay awake—this was important, he needed to… needed
to… needed to what, again? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t keep his eyes open.
The pull of sleep was too strong, and he slipped off the edge of consciousness,
the voices fading back into nothing.
 
 
The next time he opened his eyes, the hospital room was bright.
Toobright. Satoru immediately winced and squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t
help as much as he’d hoped. Light was filtering through his eyelids, and he
resigned himself to waking up, cracking one eye hesitantly open. Someone had
opened the window, and sunshine was pouring in, carrying with it a cool breeze.
Satoru tried to breathe it in, but only got dry and filtered air, pumped
through his mask. He frowned and weakly reached up to take it off, IV tubes
following his arm.
In the end, someone else did it for him. Satoru looked sleepily up as his
mother unhooked the machine from his mouth and nose, a coy and exhausted smile
on her face. “Finally decided to wake up, huh?”
Satoru stared at her for a moment, before his nose twitched. Something floral
was tickling at his senses, and he slowly turned his head towards his
nightstand. The vase on his bedside table was stuffed with fresh flowers, pale
petals and soft hues bursting and overflowing out of the rim. Sitting next to
it was a smaller glass jar, clear and brightly-coloured candy waiting inside.
“Yashiro-sensei brought them for you,” Sachiko explained, setting the mask down
beside the gifts.
“Ya… shiro?” he whispered, his voice dry.
“That’s right.” Sachiko was already reaching for the water jug, pouring him a
glass. “We told him you weren’t seeing anyone today, but he insisted on having
them brought to you.”
Satoru nodded as he accepted the drink, precariously holding it in both hands.
He sipped at it slowly, still staring at the presents out of the corner of his
eye. Yashiro-sensei… some memories were jumbled up in his brain, but he
remembered Yashiro very well. The teacher who always offered an understanding
smile and a listening ear, ruffling his students’ hair at the end of each day.
His hands fell back to his lap, loosely balancing the empty glass between his
palms. For some reason, thinking of Yashiro-sensei felt—warm. Comforting and
calming, like a hot spring welling in his chest. Satoru couldn’t resist the
small smile that melted onto his face as he thought back to those days, to the
man laughing easily as he leaned against his desk. Yashiro-sensei had always
been kind, hadn’t he?
(A prickling, tingling sensation itched at the side of his neck. Satoru ignored
it.)
The easy feeling didn’t last long. It was only seconds before Satoru felt it
again: the presence at the other end of the thread, humming and crooning at
him. He inhaled sharply as it made itself known, memories of pain making his
whole body tense. His grip tightened on the glass until his pale knuckles were
a pure white, his eyes shutting and bracing for another round.
But it didn’t come. The stranger remained distant, tentative and unsure—though
Satoru could feel its distress all the same. It carefully reached out like a
wounded animal, approaching with its head bowed low. Satoru grit his teeth as
it brushed against his consciousness, gentle and apologetic, like fingers
tucking away a stray hair. It was in that brief moment that he felt it:
remorse, self-loathing and guilt,intense enough to make Satoru’s intestines
twist up into his throat.
And beneath it all, the littlest speck of hope, a weak little plea for
forgiveness.
Satoru jerked away from it all as if it burned, scrambling as far away as his
mind would allow. The outsider immediately retreated as well, bitter
disappointment and fresh regret trailing in its wake. Satoru waited for a few
seconds to make sure it wasn’t going to approach again before giving a harsh
sigh, his grip on the glass finally falling loose.
He should have cut the thread when he had the chance.
“And—Satoru?”
He looked up, and his mother gave him an unimpressed look. “You didn’t hear a
word I just said, did you?”
“Sorry,” he murmured, shakily setting his empty glass down on the nightstand.
“I was saying,” Sachiko began again, sitting at the edge of her son’s bed with
forced levity, “an inspector will be stopping by with Kitamura later. They want
to talk about your case.”
He frowned. “I still don’t remember anything.”
“I know,” she said, offering her son an oddly sad smile. “But I think you’re
going to be the one asking the questions this time, Satoru.”
 
 
They told him everything.
Satoru had already pieced together bits and pieces of what must have happened
that night, but not much. Only that there had been an “accident,” that they had
pulled him out of the frozen river, and that he’d slept for nearly fifteen
years. But beyond that, nothing. Most of the month leading up to his coma was a
blank page he couldn’t fill in on his own, no matter how much he wracked his
tired brain.
And now the inspector was there, sitting at the foot of his bed with a grim
expression, walking him through it all with an almost clinical detachment.
It hadn’t been an accident at all. A basketball was found wedged against the
gas pedal, purposefully pushing the car into the water. The seatbelt lock had
been tampered with, keeping him trapped to his seat. There were abrasions all
over his chest when they brought him in: deep red lines where he’d struggled
against the strap, trying to force his way free.
There were so many problems with his body—the lack of oxygen to his brain, the
hypothermia, the fact that he wasn’t even breathingon his own—that they didn’t
address the last one until the police had already arrived to photograph the
evidence on his skin. “You had a bite mark,” the inspector told him, pointing
at the base of his own neck. “Here.”
Satoru pressed his hand against the skin of his throat, the crook between his
shoulder and jugular veins burning and itching beneath his palm. A thousand
questions were already racing through his head—a frantic clamoring of whatand
whereand why—but nothing could get past the stupefied silence that had killed
his voice. “And,” the inspector continued, watching Satoru intently with hands
entwined in front of him, “some of your clothes were torn.”
“What?” Satoru muttered, his brain trying to play catch-up with his ears. The
implications were already forming in his brain, but some part of him just
couldn’t acceptthem; something continued to whisper wrong wrong wrong,prickling
under his skin. He pursed his lips together, keeping his hand defensively
against the side of his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“You didn’t remember,” Sachiko said, a shred of guilt making its way onto her
face. “We thought it would be easier for you this way.”
Satoru’s frown deepened, his own nails digging into the side of his neck like
teeth. The inspector cleared his throat, looking seriously in the patient’s
direction. “It’s likely you were targeted because you’re an omega,” he
explained regretfully. “Probably by an alpha with a… tendency towards
children.”
But that’s wrong,Satoru’s brain screamed, but he swallowed down the thought—and
tried to ignore the fact that the officer was an alpha himself, his strong and
heavy smell spiced with cigarette smoke. “So why are you telling me this now?”
Kitamura finally spoke up from his seat, carefully adjusting his glasses. “That
feeling you said you have,” he explained, “it’s called a mating bond. It can
occur when one person bites another, usually on the neck. It’s most common in
alpha-omega pairs, for some reason or another.”
Satoru could see where this was going, and his stomach was already stirring,
furiously nauseous and churning. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself
from being sick. A the shiver crawled across his body, seeping into his bones;
distantly, he could feel the other presence in his head—worried and
fretting—making itself known. Satoru breathed deeply, a bead of sweat crawling
down his neck.
“Then,” he started quietly, “that person tried to kill me.”
No one said a thing, but they didn’t need to. His first instinct was to deny it
all: the voice in his head had been kind,always trying to comfort him with
wordless assurances. Satoru could feel what it felt, devotion and affection
coming as naturally as breathing. And when he’d first stirred awake, it had
been overjoyed, relief flooding over them both and grabbing onto Satoru like it
never wanted to let go. It just—didn’t feellike that person wanted him dead.
But. His body still remembered that pain. How it had seared into his skull,
tearing his limbs and muscles apart; he could feel it even now, raw and aching
somewhere beneath his skin, like a wound that hadn’t healed. Could still
remember how it had roared and raged like a hurricane inside his head, violent
and unrelenting; yet cold and calculating, like claws and thorns made of ice,
digging into his flesh.
A deep certainty settled into Satoru’s bones. That presence, that person—they
had killed before. Definitely.
He dropped his hand away from the bite’s phantom pain, still pulsing on his
neck. “How do I get rid of it?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Kitamura said, tucking his hands into the pockets of
his lab coat. “Not right now, at least. It’s a miracle your body managed to
withstand what happened yesterday. Maybe when you’re stronger, we can try
again.” He gave Sachiko a quick glance, before turning back to Satoru. “In the
meantime, there are ways for you to shut them out.”
“That being said,” the officer interjected, “if you happen to feel anything
across the bond that could help the investigation, don’t hesitate to tell us,
Fujinuma. There will be an officer outside your door from now on—just let them
know if you think of anything relevant. Even something small can be a huge
help.”
“Right,” Satoru murmured, staring down at his lap. He could see where the
inspector was coming from, but frankly, the last thing he wanted to do was
engage with the killer at the other end of the thread. The sooner he could tune
him out completely, the better.
There was barely a beat of silence before his mother was there, stepping away
from the window and fixing both men with a hard look. “Kitamura-sensei,” she
said, staring directly at the doctor. “I think that’s enough for today.”
The doctor easily gave a nod as he stood to his feet. “I agree,” he said,
stretching his arms over his head. He’d probably long learnt not to even try
against Fujinuma Sachiko—but the officer wavered for a moment longer, standing
but not moving, watching Satoru out of the corner of his eye.
“Here,” he said, slipping a business card onto the nightstand next to Yashiro’s
gifts. “In case there’s anything.”
Satoru nodded without a word, and watched as his mother ushered both of them
out of his hospital room. Only when the door slipped shut again did both
Fujinumas release a slow breath, their shoulders sinking together in slow
motion. Together, they listened to the sound of the two of them walking away,
their voices hushes and footsteps fading. Only when it was all silent did
Sachiko turn back to her son, her brows furrowed. “How do you feel, Satoru?”
Confused. Conflicted. A bit irritated, though he didn’t know at what or at who
or why. But most of all, he felt powerless—unable to do anything one way or
another, trapped in this goddamn bed. His hands curled into fists in his
blankets. “It’s,” he started, turning to look at the jar of candy by his
bedside, “a lot… to take in.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed again. “It is,” she confirmed, the corners
of her mouth tight. “More than you should have to.” She tipped her head to the
side to stare at the flowers for a long moment, her voice coming out achingly
soft. “What do you want to do, Satoru?”
“I…” He stopped, staring at the presents on the table. He could barely figure
out where—or who—he even was right now, let alone where he wanted to be. It
seemed like every day he was learning something that threw his reality for a
loop. He didn’t even know if he could trust the voices ringing in his own head,
didn’t know what emotions were even hisanymore. But what he did know was—
“I want to stand,” he said firmly, turning in his mother’s direction. “Alone,
on my own two feet. And then, I can move forward.”
Sachiko stared at him for a second, before a smile broke out her face, small
but fiercely fond. An almost-laugh left her lips in a rush of air, even as her
eyes turned wet. “I watched you change for all these years,” she said, a tear
managing to slip out of her eye, “but you really are a grown-up now, aren’t
you?”
“I already was one before,” he countered sulkily, and his mother laughed again.
“I think you might be right,” she said, patting his knee. She took a moment to
wipe at her eyes, before fixing him with a genuine smile, strong and
determined. “Alright. Let’s start getting you on your feet, then.”
 
 
As promised, the bond specialist taught Satoru how to keep the killer out.
Apparently, it wasn’t too different than cutting the thread—which is probably
why they had two nurses standing by with anesthetic and sedatives, just in
case. Satoru tried his best to ignore them, turning his senses inward, to that
dark and formless place; breathing steadily until he could follow the string
again, floating and swaying between their minds.
The person on the other ended was immediately at attention, observing
hopefully, with longing thrums echoing along the bond. Satoru shuddered,
because he didn’t want any of it; didn’t want something so affectionatecoming
from someone who killed people.Who had tried to kill him,for some reason he
still didn’t understand.
“It’s easiest for most people to imagine a wall, or a door,” the specialists
offered, whispering in his ear.
Satoru nodded, pursing his lips tight. A door: ever since waking up, he’d felt
like his memories were behind a locked door, so it was easy to imagine it. In
his mind, he could see a pair of big, impenetrable wooden things, thick and
branded with metal plates; the string ran through the two, swirling and
disappearing into the invisible beyond. 
With a shuddering breath, he began to push the gateway closed. There was that
shock of realization and panic from the other end of the line—just like last
time—and Satoru grit his teeth and tried to move faster, scrambling to close
off the connection. This time, there was no pain: just sorrow and pleading, a
bitter resignation, and then—
The doors slipped shut, and everything went silent. Satoru let out a soft sigh
and opened his eyes, blinking as the bright lights of the hospital room came
back into view. The specialist was there, her kitten pen clutched tightly in
her hand. “How does it feel, Fujinuma-kun?”
He waited for a moment just to be sure, before a small smile made its way onto
his face. “Quiet.”
 
 
A week ticked by, and then two of them.
Mostly, things stayed the same. Bit by bit, Satoru was allowed out of his
hospital bed—only ever in his wheelchair, of course, but at least it was
something. More often than not, he found himself out in the gardens, inhaling
the fresh air and feeling the unfiltered sun on his face. With his sense of
smell still out of control, the freshness of the outside world was a welcome
change. Inside the hospital, there was the constant stench of medication,
antiseptic and sickness. In the courtyard, there was only the grass, the
leaves, the wetness that came after rain—
And the police officer, following a couple of steps behind him.
It was an uncomfortable feeling, being constantly watched and observed. They
never came into his hospital room, but Satoru could still see them through the
frosted glass, a constant reminder of the killer that was still in his head.
For better or worse, the bond hadn’t been broken—and Satoru was forced to learn
the hard way that a silenced bond wasn’t completely silent.
The locked door kept him from feeling the other’s emotions, but the outsider
was still there, hovering on the other side. Every so often, Satoru could feel
a knocking—a set of three gentle taps against the door, politely asking for re-
entry, to be permitted back into his mind. As much as he could, Satoru ignored
it; tried to drown it out with the Wonder Guy theme song, playing through a
pair of headphones.
Sometimes, it worked. Other times—
Satoru stumbled, just barely managing to catch himself, his grip on the wooden
beams tightening. His body was hot,every limb aching as they were forced to
move again—and through the sweat on his face he could see the physical
therapist, arms out and ready to catch him if he fell. “You’re doing great,
Fujinuma,” he promised. “Just a few more steps, okay? Almost there.”
Satoru winced, but nodded. The polite knocking had given way to a frantic
pounding, as if the killer was trying to tear down the door between them by
force. As always, he tried to ignore it—tried to focus on the fire burning in
his muscles, the heat under his skin, the way his breath was coming out in
desperate pants for air. Tried to focus on the next step, his legs screaming as
they were forced to move.
His foot shuffled across the mat, not really able to lift, barely managing to
move forward. Just one step, then another. But this time, Satoru’s entire body
spasmed as the killer threw themselves against the door with a bang—and this
time his grip on the bars wasn’t strong enough to keep him from hitting the
floor.
His limbs landed with a soft thumpagainst the cushioned ground, his muscles
shuddering. Both his hands reached up to clutch at his head, a low growl of
pain and frustration managing to slip past his grit teeth. The therapist was
there in an instant, crouching down next to his patient. “That was great,” he
assured him, his voice bright. “You’re making real progress, Fujinuma.”
The pounding was already starting to ebb, and Satoru let his hands drop,
flopping against the mattress as his body heaved. Usually, the mats were
refreshingly cold—but right now, all he could feel was the heat still pouring
off his body. “Not,” he panted, “not enough.”
“You have to be patient.” The man beamed down at him. “Your efforts won’t be in
vain, I’m sure of it.”
I just couldn’t let your noble efforts end in vain, Satoru.
Satoru’s eyes widened. Who had… said that before?
A ragged gasp ripped itself from his mouth, his head thrown back. Satoru could
feel his body suddenly convulsing, every muscle screaming under his skin. For
some reason, he couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t manage to cool down. There
was a deep ache coiling not in his limbs, but somewhere deep in his stomach;
and he wrapped his arms around his middle with a high-pitched noise of wanting.
His body was hot, too hot, but he couldn’t worry about that now—not when there
was that voice, ringing in his ears but far away, where are you—
His legs weakly squirmed against the mat, a desperate whine coming out of his
throat. He could hear his therapist’s voice, but that’s not right, that’s not
who should be here.His hand clapped down on his nose and mouth as his body
twitched, trying to block out the scent of not him, it’s not him! Satoru’s
vision was blurring in front of his eyes, his mouth openly panting, his skin
burning, the smell of—
 
 
—leather and candy, assaulting his nose. It had brought him comfort once, but
now it only strangled him, panic tightening around his throat like a noose. He
couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except watch through the car windows as
Ishikari faded into the distance behind them. Satoru could smell his own scent,
frantic and distressed, pumping out of his pores: the sweet smell of vanilla,
stained with adrenaline.
Beside him, Yashiro paid it no mind. The man didn’t even look in his direction
as he rolled down his car window, staring up at the sky. “It’s snowing, huh?”
The car—the car had stopped. Desperately, Satoru threw himself against the
seatbelt. He repeatedly plunged his fingers into the buckle, trying to press it
loose, his shoulders twisting. No good, no good, no good: it didn’t so much as
budge, and he gave a short, frightened whine, his legs frantically kicking at
the air.
To his right, Yashiro just continued to stare out at the river, his voice even.
“It’s game over. For you and for me.”
A sob tried to rip itself from his throat, but Satoru bit it down, his lips
shaking with the effort. This wasn’t happening, it wasn’t happening, this was
all a lie, it just had to be. He squeezed his eyes shut as he thrashed, hot
tears cutting down his face. He needed to escape, he needed to getaway,or—or he
was—Yashiro was going to—!
“To be honest, I’m stunned you cornered me like this.” Beside him, his teacher
easily unbuckled his own seatbelt, and Satoru could do nothing but watch as the
older man leaned over him. His body froze as the alpha’s scent stormed his
senses, thick and predatory, coveting.A twisted smirk curled slowly over his
features, wild and deranged, so unlike Yashiro-sensei that it sent a shiver
down Satoru’s spine. “It’s almost like you’ve seen the future.”
Fingers, cold as ice, reached up and brushed against his cheek. Satoru inhaled
sharply before hitting the hand away, a small snarl rumbling out of his throat,
even as his legs and knees curled defensively close. “D-don’t—don’t touch me!”
Those fingers drummed against the headrest of Satoru’s seat, and Yashiro tilted
his head, bangs falling across a pair of sharp eyes. “I did a little research,
Satoru,” he started, still leaning over his prey. “Did you know? Since they
started counting, only 127 male omegas were ever reported in Japan, not
including you. Tell me—how many of them do you think made it to their
thirties?”
Satoru pressed his lips together, eyes red-rimmed and wet.
“Sixteen,” Yashiro continued, “out of 127. A little over 12.5 per cent,
mathematically speaking. Do you know why?”
He continued to glare, his hands still wrangling with the buckle, the seatbelt
digging painfully deep into his chest. “Because of people like you?”
Yashiro threw back his head and laughed—a joyless sound, dry and cold. “Yes, I
suppose you could say that,” he responded. “Sexual assault, discrimination,
abuse. Extremely high rates of suicide. Many died from health complications
related to suppressant overdose.” Yashiro’s eyes were practically red in the
low light, his fingers still tap-tap-tapping just over his student’s shoulders.
“And some just disappeared. You’re a smart boy, Satoru—I’m sure you can figure
out why.”
A small growl, pitiful and high-pitched, tore itself from his choked-up throat.
“Wh-what’s your point?”
“Well, I obviously have to kill you,” Yashiro said. Satoru’s stomach flipped,
colliding into his lungs and kicking his breath out of him. There was no
emotion to the words, no feeling; if anything, his teacher looked bored,
staring down at Satoru with a detached curiosity. “But someone will always
wonder. Why you? Why Satoru Fujinuma? What did he know?”
It was then that a killer’s smile stretched slowly across his face. “So I
thought to myself,” he whispered lowly, “why risk turning you into a martyr…
when I can turn you into a statistic instead?”
The words hadn’t even sunk in when a hand clamped down onto Satoru’s throat.
He gave a strangled gasp as Yashiro’s fingers wrapped around his windpipe, his
head thrown back against the seat. His immediate reaction was to scream—but the
grip was tight, too tight, his cry for help coming out as more of a stifled
gurgle. Desperately, Satoru’s fingers reached up to claw at the offending arm,
his legs trying to kick away at the alpha looming over him. “L-let—me go—!”
A thumb grazed against his jugular vein, and Satoru felt it press down at the
base of his neck. A shock shuddered through his system like lightning, his
entire body tensing. Already, he could feel the pheromones and endorphins
rushing through his veins, melting the tension in his muscles—and Satoru could
do nothing but whimper, his limbs struggling to keep up the fight. “B-bastard…”
“Language,” Yashiro chastised, his thumb continuing to rub circles into
Satoru’s scent gland. That hand remained tightly wound around Satoru’s throat,
coaxing his body into an unwilling submission—but the other moved farther down.
Satoru could feel the cold leather glove slipping under the neck of his shirt,
brushing against his collarbone.
Yashiro’s hand curled into a fist and pulled. Satoru winced as his shirt tore
with a long, slow rip, the thin fabric falling apart easily. He shivered as
cold air met exposed skin, his hands weakly trying to dislodge the grip still
wrapped tightly around his throat. No use: it might as well have been made of
steel, for all the good it did him.
Methodically, Yashiro’s hand moved lower, fingers slipping into the miniature
belt loops on his jeans. Satoru shut his eyes tight as the killer tore his
pants apart, his cheap clothes splitting at the seams. He knew that the killer
didn’t sexually assault his victims—not the Ishikari ones, at least—but that
didn’t stop his chest from rising and falling rapidly, panic flushing into his
lungs.
Eventually, Yashiro leaned back with one hand still firmly keeping Satoru
pinned by the throat. He gave a small hum, his eyes roaming across the omega’s
form, assessing his work. “It feels like something is missing,” he hummed.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Satoru?”
He couldn’t even shake his head, let only speak—so Satoru continued to glare
through wet eyes, swallowing thickly. Slowly, steadily, the grip on his throat
crawled upwards, the thumb trailing up and tracing the arteries beating under
his hold. Satoru could feel Yashiro’s other hand clutching at his shoulder,
trapping him firmly against the seat. There were fingers digging into his chin,
wrenching his head to the side. For a brief moment, Satoru didn’t understand,
didn’t know what washappening—
But then hot breath brushed against his skin of his neck.
“No!” he gasped, his fingers digging into Yashiro’s sleeve. The heel of his
foot collided with Yashiro’s stomach, but nothing happened: the older man
didn’t so much as flinch, wet exhales landing against his scent gland. Satoru
stared frantically beyond the windshield, his heart leaping into his mouth as
the man’s teeth grazed against his throat. “Yashiro—!”
The man’s teeth sank into his veins, and this time, Satoru really did scream.
The canines split the thin flesh apart like knives, sending fire shooting
through his blood. It set his entire body on fire, like everything under his
skin was boiling, sweat and tears rushing down his face. Even his breaths felt
like they were getting swallowed by the murderer’s maw, his lungs and chest
hitching, unable to even inhale as Yashiro’s jaw worked at his throat.
After what felt like hours, Yashiro’s teeth slowly slipped out of his neck, a
long trail of saliva following his lips. His tight grip on the omega was
suddenly gone, and Satoru gasped as the air flooded his lungs, his legs curling
in tight as his hands flew to his throat. The wound underneath his palms was
slick and hot, pulsing under his touch. When he pulled his fingers back, even
in the darkness, Satoru could see the red that was smeared all over his skin.
The same red that was staining Yashiro’s lips. The man wiped at his mouth with
a gloved hand, the leather smearing a streak of blood across his cheek. Satoru
glared up at him, futilely trying to stem the bleeding as tears ran down his
face. “W-why?”
“Didn’t I tell you, Satoru?” he explained, reaching behind him into the
backseat. “You’re going to be a statistic. Just another male omega who didn’t
get to grow up, killed by an alpha who couldn’t resist your scent.”
“Y-you’re an alpha!” Satoru yelled. His head felt heavy, like molasses was
pouring in to his brain; he tried to keep his head clear, focusing on the sharp
sting still throbbing from the bite. “You’ll be at the top of the suspect
list!”
A smile twitched at the corners of Yashiro’s mouth, and he pulled a duffel bag
into his lap. “There are rules about working with children, you know,” he
explained, slowly unzipping. Satoru watched every movement, his body heaving.
“I’ve been on suppressants ever since I started teaching. A single blood test,
and my name will be cleared.”
His hands lifted the basketball out from inside the bag, a grin stretching
across his face, revealed his blood-stained teeth. “Besides,” he added, a fake
and mocking sadness seeping into his tone, “I didn’t even know you were an
omega. Your friends did such a good job of hiding it, after all.”
Satoru watched as Yashiro unlocked the door on his side with a flick of his
wrist, the basketball balanced on one hand. “Just to be clear,” he continued,
“I’m not doing this out of revenge. Honestly, I bear no hatred towards you,
Satoru. I hope you understand that.”
“I thought you said it was game over for you too!” he snapped, his skin
tingling. His clothes were ripped, it was the middle of winter—yet Satoru felt
oddly hot, his breath coming out in little bursts of white fog.
Yashiro pushed his door open and stepped out, one hand resting on the roof of
the car as he peered inside. “It is,” he said simply. “I’ll be leaving
Ishikari. You’ve earned this town’s peace. Isn’t that what you wanted?” he
asked, smirking. “And I earn a death for my sake, at my hands. We all deserve a
return for our efforts, don’t you think?”
The fire underneath his skin exploded into a rage, and Satoru threw himself
against the seatbelt holding him down, his lips curled back into a snarl.
“Yashiro—I won’t die until I see you destroyed!”
The killer stared at him for a moment, before jamming the basketball against
the gas pedal. “That,” he said, stepping back, “is what they call aiming too
high.”
A frustrated cry shot out of Satoru’s throat as the car began to roll steadily
forward. His hands—slick and soaked with blood—frantically reached for the belt
buckle again, his hips trying to twist out of the hold. As always, it held: the
mechanism didn’t so much as shudder, and Satoru felt the car pitch wildly
around him. His head whipped up just in time to watch the water surge over the
windshield, the glass cracking under the weight of the river.
Liquid ice poured in from the open windows, and he gasped, the cold shocking
his overheated body. The surge buffeted against his face, the taste of winter
crashing against his cheeks. He shook his head, as if it could somehow stop the
torrent flooding into the car, his legs kicking wildly. He needed to get out,
he needed to get outnow—but the water was rising, the river rapidly crawling up
his stomach.
Satoru squeezed his eyes shut and cursed again. He didn’t want to die here: he
wanted to eat his mother’s cooking again, and go camping with Kayo like he
promised. He wanted to thank Airi for believing in him and talk with Kenya on
the stairs again. He wanted—
He wanted tosurvive.
Satoru’s eyes shot open, and deep in the core of his being, two puzzle pieces
snapped loudly together. For a second, all he could feel was the vertigo—the
feeling of falling, before being yanked back, his entire soul wrenched and
pulled along. But then he felt a tether, holding it together; a bond, tying his
mind down, wrapping his consciousness in spider’s thread.
And from the other end—through his own fear and panic and screams of I want to
live!—he felt it: a deep-seated satisfaction, a thrum of happiness and pride,
twisted and perverted pleasure beating from the wound in his neck.
Instinctively, Satoru knew whose it was—and he clamped both his hands down
against the bite, throwing his head back.
“Yashiro!” he shouted, his fingers digging into the blood with a piercing cry.
“I know your future!”
There: a tug of curiosity, confusion lacing that homicidal delight. Satoru let
out a shuddering breath, before the river licked at his chin; with a panicked
yelp, he took a deep and desperate inhale. The water slipped over his nose,
licking at his temples—and then it overtook him completely, silently swallowing
him whole.
Shit! His feet stamped against the bottom of the car, his torn clothes floating
around his body. His fingers were turning stiff and unruly, his grip slipping
off of the buckle; his body was losing the ability to even feel anything except
the cold all around. Already, he could feel his limbs slowing to a stop, his
lungs burning and threatening to burst inside his chest.
He wasn’t going to make it. The truth had settled into his brain, but he didn’t
want to believe it; his body continued to weakly jerk against the seatbelt, a
last-ditch effort to survive. Eventually, even that stopped—and Satoru was
forced to finally open his mouth, the last of the precious oxygen slipping away
from his lips.
A tendril of blood floated in front of his face, staining the river red. He
could vaguely taste it on his tongue as he inhaled the water, the world already
starting to dim. His body wouldn’t—couldn’t—move anymore. Even his brain was
shutting down, he knew; even the panic was gone, replaced by an empty resolve
that he couldn’t fulfill.
From somewhere far away, it felt that moment of realization, the clarity
cutting the killer’s mind in two. Desperately, the other presence reached for
him; and despite himself, Satoru weakly reached back, their two minds reaching
for each other in the void. How weird: now, it was the other one who was
afraid—desperately pleading for Satoru to wait, to hold on, to just keep his
eyes open until—
 
 
—his body lurched, gasping and heaving, raw air scraping its way down his
throat. Burning burning burning: the cold was biting at his body, only it
wasn’t cold at all. No—no, this was heat:all-encompassing and inescapable, as
if burning embers had been buried under his skin. Desperately, his fingers
clawed at his chest, his head throwing itself back against the mattress. It
needed to stop, how did he make it stop—
A cool cloth was gently placed on his forehead, and Satoru immediately sighed,
his chest still heaving despite the respite. Still, he reveled in the small
comfort, trying to focus on it—and not the pain shooting through his stomach,
the ache between his legs, or the wet feeling that was smeared all over his
thighs. Not the growing, hungry needfor someone who smelled like candy and
leather, his toes curling with a desperate whine.
Someone was calling his name. Satoru forced his eyes to crack open, his mouth
open and panting, legs twisting against the sweat-soaked sheets. “Ki…tamura?”
“Hey there,” the doctor said, wringing out another washcloth. This time, he
pressed it to the omega’s neck—and Satoru had to resist the urge to force that
hand to go elsewhere,his arms wrapping around himself and gripping at his
shirt. But he still arched his neck back, revelling in that amazing chill,
giving a happy exhale.
“You gave us quite a shock,” Kitamura continued. “Usually, omegas show signs
before going into heat.”
Satoru opened his mouth, but another jolt of pain shot through his stomach,
swallowing his words with a desperate groan. “You shouldn’t talk,” Kitamura
continued, frowning slightly. “This is your first heat in fifteen years. You’re
going to need all your strength.”
Heat? His eyes shot open, his lungs leaping in his chest. He’d—gone into heat?
When? How?Frantically, he looked around, and realized that this wasn’t even his
hospital room; there were no flowers or gifts, no comforting yellow walls, not
a hint of sentimentality. Instead, this place seemed almost sterile: the walls
and floors a pure white, the room empty of furniture except for the large bed
he was in.
He turned his eyes to his doctor, pleading and confused. “You’re in one of the
hospital’s heat rooms,” he explained. “It’s scent-proof and soundproof. Your
hospital room would have been too… open.”
Satoru weakly nodded. That made sense, but—but being here, in this place devoid
of scents and sound and people sent something in him on edge. It made him want
to thrash and scream and cry out, because this place wasn’t familiar, wasn’t
safe.All the pillows piled up around him didn’t change the fact that he was
isolated and alone, when all he wanted was his mate.
Wanted Yashiro. His eyes widened suddenly, a ragged gasp scraping out of his
mouth. Yashiro Yashiro Yashiro: his mate, his alpha.His fingers flew up to his
neck, but the bite was gone—and that alone made Satoru want to scream, his
nails digging into the skin of his throat desperately. He needed him here, he
needed those teeth to sink into his neck, he wanted Yashiro to tear off his
clothes and mean it.He needed—
He needed to tell someone.
Satoru grit his teeth, his breath quick and rabid. Someone needed to know that
Yashiro was the killer: Satoru wouldn’t be able to stop him like this, but
someone had to—or more people were going to get hurt. Somehow, that logic
managed to cut through the heat-haze; weakly, he reached out to his doctor, his
fingers curling desperately into Kitamura’s sleeve.
“P-please,” he panted, sweat trickling down his face, “K—Kenya.”
Kitamura stared at him for a second, before dropping his hand onto his
patient’s wrist. “Satoru,” he started slowly, “I know you and Kobayashi are
close, and that he’s an alpha you trust. But you need to get through this
alone.”
What? No! Satoru gave a frustrated whine, his arm twitching. “I just—I need,”
he grunted, eyes squeezing shut, before shaking his head against the pillows.
“Then—p-police.”
“There’s one outside,” Kitamura said, placing Satoru’s hand back across his
stomach. For the first time, Satoru noticed the long, thin tube attached to his
arm: an IV, the needle nestled in his veins. “A beta, of course. He’s going to
make sure no one goes in or out but me, but he’s not coming in.”
For fuck’s sake, how can someone so smart be so stupid? Satoru gave a strangled
curse as another round of pain and lust punched him in the gut, his entire face
twisting in discomfort. His hips squirmed against the bed, desperate for
relief—but this was more important. He needed to make Kitamura understand, he
needed to make sure someone knew.
“The killer,” he whispered, swallowing thickly. He opened his mouth, but the
syllables died on his tongue. All he had to do was say the man’s name—Yashiro
Gaku, Nishizono Manabu, whichever—but for some reason, his voice failed him.
His lips couldn’t form the words, reined in by something desperate and
wanting,hot and coiled in his core.
“He isn’t going to get anywhere near you,” Kitamura assured him. “There’s the
officer outside the door, and security at every entrance to the wing. You’ll be
safe here.”
Just say it.Satoru parted his lips, but the heat had strangled his vocal
chords. Deep down, something was growling that it would be a betrayal, a
treason, protect your mate.Satoru’s fingers curled into the sheets, and he gave
a short and irritated cry, rage and frustration burning in his bones. He wanted
Yashiro brought to justice, he did, he did—but something kept it all corked
inside, and he felt like he was going to explode.
Kitamura readjusted the wet cloth on Satoru’s forehead. “I know it’s hard, but
try not to pull out your IV. It’s going to help keep you hydrated,” he
explained, pulling the stand closer to the bed. “I have to go now, but I’ll be
back in a few hours to get some food and water in you.”
It’s Yashiro! He tried to kill me! He’s going to kill someone else!But no
matter how loudly his mind was screaming, it never made it out of his throat.
After all this time, Satoru had finally found the answer he was looking for—and
he couldn’t even tell anyone. As it was, his body couldn’t even move; the limbs
too weak to do anything but thrash and squirm, powerless against the hormones
rushing through his veins.
Satoru could feel the failure pooling in his eyes, salty and wet. It was just
like the car all over again. He couldn’t do anything.
Kitamura pushed himself to his feet, giving his patient a slightly sympathetic
glance. “I’ll see if I can get something you help you with the symptoms,” he
said, walking towards the door. “Until then, try to hang in there, Fujinuma.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and Satoru was alone.
For a long moment, Satoru just stared at where Kitamura had disappeared, his
body heaving and panting. With a loud grunt, he somehow managed to roll himself
onto his side, his face desperately burying itself into the pillows. The scent
he was looking for—familiar, warm, mate—wasn’t there, and he hated himself for
looking for it in the first place.
Goddamn it. With Kitamura gone, without anything to take his mind off of it,
his body was even harder to ignore. A single washcloth did next to nothing to
stave off the heat-wave crawling along his skin, impossibly sweltering and hot.
It felt like someone had dropped him in the middle of a desert, and Satoru
tangled both of his hands in his sweat-soaked hair, growling uselessly at the
world.
But the worst of it was concentrated below his stomach. Between his legs he was
aching,and his hips weakly tried to rut against the mattress. It was so
desperate that it hurt, and all he wanted was relief, wanted someone to come
along and take it away.But even he knew that that fingers and touches alone
wouldn’t be enough; the slick pouring down his thighs made that very clear, his
pants already soaked through.
Bleary-eyed, he stared forward into space, his hands slipping down—one resting
on his neck, and the other travelling lower. Slowly, Satoru slid that hand
beneath the band of his pants, his fingers weakly taking his length in hand. He
tried to get a grip, tried to move at a speed that would at least take the edge
off—but his muscles were too weak, and a needy groan rumbled out of his throat.
He couldn’t do this alone. He needed someone to come, to help take all of this
away. With nothing else to do, Satoru took a deep breath and tried to pretend
that he wasn’t here. Immediately, his mind took him back to that dark car,
watching the world become small in the rear-view mirror.
In his mind, the car would stop somewhere far away, private and unseen—and this
time, he wouldn’t flinch when Yashiro came closer. The very idea of the locked
seatbelt—keeping him held down, unable to escape, practically on display—made
the ecstasy spike under his skin, and Satoru panted openly, lust building in
his belly.
He knew this was fucked up, disgusting and wrong in so many ways—but Satoru
couldn’t stop it, his head rushing away from him faster than he could hold on.
Yashiro would be slow, but firm; every touch just a little too rough, a little
too tight. Too easily, Satoru could imagine himself coming undone under those
hands, the feel of cold gloves moving against his exposed skin. The pricking of
the older man’s teeth against his neck, breath hot and heavy against the winter
cold. The feeling of his knees being pushed apart as Yashiro—
Satoru’s eyes shot open, the fantasy broken.
For a long second, he just waited there: panting as quietly as he could, his
eyes suddenly jumping to the door. He hadn’t imagined it, had he? All of his
senses were more sensitive, his hearing included—and he could have sworn he had
heard something, but now there was only silence. Satoru strained his ears as
much as he could, trying to hear the world over the sound of his own frantic
heartbeat.
Then it came again: that three-tone knocking, echoing from inside his own head.
“Yashiro,” he whispered, his skin crawling. That was him: his Yashiro, his
alpha—reaching out, calling from behind the locked door. So close and yet so
far, but yet not here. Satoru could feel his entire body itching and prickling
with ecstasy, every fibre of his being craving the person behind the barrier.
If you open the door,his traitorous mind offered, he’ll come.
Satoru slapped his hand over his mouth, his teeth sinking into the flesh of his
palm. No: he couldn’t. After everything Yashiro had put him through—killing his
mother, killing Kayo,not to mention drowning him—he couldn’t just, just let the
killer back in. No matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much his body
shook and shuddered with need—
Yashiro knocked again, and the breath left Satoru’s lips in an uneven moan.
He knew the older man had regretted everything: Satoru felt it every time they
brushed together, the man’s deep-seated guilt buried in every emotion. Yashiro
had been kind, affectionate and warm since the moment he woke up; comforting
him, making him feel safe.Despite himself, Satoru could feel his mind already
crawling closer to the door; could feel his heat-hazed brain trying to claw at
the locks, fumbling with fever.
“Don’t,” he whispered out loud, shaking his head. He tried to hold on to the
memories of pain:the ripping, tearing, all-encompassing ragewhen he’d tried to
sever the bond. More than once, that person had hurt him more than anyone ever
had. Satoru tried to tell his head that, tried to get it through his own thick
skull. Yashiro Gaku was dangerous, he was a killer, he—
He’s your mate,his mind reminded him, before it threw the doors open.
The reaction was immediate: Satoru could feel the other presence, relieved and
elated—and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His mind was a hurricane of
lust desperation anxiety lonely where are you please help me—and he could feel
the moment the force of it hit Yashiro, the other man practically staggering in
surprise. Still, desperately, Satoru clutched at him, wrapping himself up in
his mate’s head, his distress shuddering across the bond.
Satoru could feel as the realization dawned on Yashiro, his own thoughts
echoing Satoru’s own. First came lust, then the frustration and fury of being
apart, simmering angrily and low. Still, he managed to send comforting thoughts
thrumming up the thread—and Satoru let out a pleased sigh, the shivering of his
body slowing to minor shudders. Steadily, Yashiro’s thoughts seemed to settle
into something firm and resolute, a promise entrenching itself in both their
minds.
Don’t worry. I’m coming.
That was bad. That was very, very bad. People could get hurt, and Satoru knew
that, knew he had to tell him to stay away—but despite himself, he found
himself nodding, relief flooding through his system.
Yashiro was coming. And then everything would be okay.
 
 
Time went by agonizingly slowly when you’re alone in heat. Satoru remembered
that from his past life: the few times he hadn’t managed to suppress his heat,
the days seemed to crawl by, every minute feeling like an hour. This time was
no different, except that it was possibly worse:this body had only ever had its
presentation heat, and nothing since. Almost an entire lifetime worth of
hormones was hitting him at once, and there was little Satoru could do but lie
there—squirming, sweltering, suffering.
And waiting. He breathed openly against the pillows, drooling and swallowing
down precious air. Yashiro was still there in his head, resolute and single-
minded, a man on a mission. When Satoru reached out to him, the other man was
quick to offer assurances and comforts—but he was clearly focused on something
else, overtaken by a single-minded determination.
But still not here.Satoru didn’t know if he was relieved or betrayed—maybe
both. Just having Yashiro there in spirit did wonders for the emotional side of
his heat, but his body was still being ravaged by the hormones, spasming wildly
when another wave hit. There wasn’t much he could do but whine and ride it out,
watching the sun dip lower and lower in the sky outside his window.
He suspected he might be slipping in and out of consciousness, but he couldn’t
really be sure—or, hadn’t really been sure until he jerked suddenly awake.
Satoru came back to his senses with a jolt, frantically looking around his
empty room. In the evening light, the sterile white room looked orange and
warm. But that wasn’t what woke him up.
It took Satoru longer than he should have to identify it, staring blankly at
the ceiling, his lungs heaving.
There was a ringing. For a second, he thought it was like the
knocking—something coming from inside his own head, bouncing around his
skull—but no. His nose twitched, and immediately, Satoru could smell… ashes,
and smoke. His brows furrowed together slowly, his hazed brain slowly churning,
before the conclusion snapped together in his brain.
The fire alarm. The hospital’s fire alarm was going off. Satoru’s eyes widened,
inhaling the scent of burning as he turned over onto his side. His heart was
hammering inside his chest, fear and hope beating together in time.
Coincidence? No, there was no way: the timing was too perfect, too convenient.
It had to be—
“Yashiro,” he whispered.
Yashiro was here. For him.For a second, joy surged through his body and soul, a
soft smile breaking out on his face. He would make all of this better; he would
make the heat and the pain go away. Satoru swallowed thickly, his wet thighs
squirming in anticipation. Yashiro was coming, any minute, any second—
The killerwas coming.
Satoru’s eyes widened, his body freezing. That’s right: Yashiro was the killer.
The person who had tried to drown him, all those years ago; the person whose
deadly resolve he could feel in his head, even now. The sirens continued to
wail in his ears, and he breathed frantically, his eyes darting to the door.
He needed to get out of here.
Satoru grit his teeth and forced his arms underneath him, his limbs shaking as
he pushed himself away from the mattress. The damp sheets stuck to his skin,
and he weakly kicked at them, detangling his legs. Just propping himself up
sent his head reeling, nausea and vertigo making the world spin in front of his
eyes. Satoru panted, and slowly began to crawl towards the edge of the bed,
grunting with every inch.
His fingers reached out blindly, and Satoru felt his fingers hit the IV stand.
With one hand, he grabbed hold, the tube tying his arm and the bag
together—with the other, he reached for the needle end, still buried under his
skin. Satoru took a deep breath, and pulled. Fuck,it hurt—the needle scraped
against his vein the entire way out, leaving a bleeding patch of skin where the
connector had been.
With both arms now free to move, Satoru gripped hold of the IV stand, and began
heaving himself to his feet. Immediately his wobbling legs tried to give out
from under him—they hadn’t been able to support his own weight in
rehabilitation, and that was with supporting bars and braces on his thighs, not
to mention his heat. Still, he refused to fall—so he leaned almost the entirety
of his weight on the metal pole, his knees buckling. His legs quivered with the
effort but remained, ultimately, standing.
It would have to do.
Sweat and slick were still coating his every pore, and just breathing seemed to
invite more of the hotinto his lungs—but Satoru forced himself to take one
shuffling step forward. Every fibre of his body was screaming against it, heat-
weary and exhausted; Satoru couldn’t even stand up straight, hunched over and
panting, clutching at his make-shift support. But—
He needed to get out of this room before Yashiro got here.
The door slid open, and Satoru froze, his head whipping up to stare at the
figure in the doorway.
The two of them met eyes, and then police officer’s shoulders sagged in relief
under his uniform. “Fujinuma-san,” he started, “thank goodness you’re awake.”
The man took two tentative steps into the room, making every movement slow and
deliberate, his hands help up in a placating gesture. “It looks like we’re
going to need to evacuate you to another wing, alright? I’ll get you—”
Satoru barely saw the shadow crawling up from behind the officer, before he
felt the hot blood splatter across his shirt.
His eyes widened, his overheating pulse turning cold. Slowly, Satoru’s eyes
dropped down to the floor. Red, bright red was splashed all over the pristine
white room; he could already feel some of it was pooling at his toes, seeping
under his feet. Somehow, the police officer was on the ground—his body writing
in pain, his mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Both of his hands clutched
at the fountain of blood gushing out of his neck, crimson pooling out from
between his fingers.
Satoru stared, his mouth parting but unable to make a sound. The officer ripped
one hand away from the wound, reaching blindly for the two-way radio strapped
to his hip—only for a pair of feet to step forward, crushing the man’s fingers
with a crunch. Satoru shuddered, and followed the arch of that leg, his gaze
crawling up until he was staring the killer in the face.
He was dressed in doctor’s scrubs, latex gloves on his hands and a medical mask
covering his features—but Satoru would have recognized him anywhere. Under the
thick metallic taste in the air, he could smell it: the heavy scent of leather
and candy, possessive and overpowering, filling the room. Nonchalantly, Yashiro
tossed a bloody surgical scalpel to the floor, dropping it into the growing
puddle spreading under the officer’s body.
Then he turned his attention elsewhere, and stared the omega in the eye.
Satoru gripped the IV stand in both hands, holding it defensively in front of
him like a weapon. Through his sweat-soaked bangs, he glared at the intruder,
his arms and legs shaking with the effort. Everything in his being was
buzzing—it’s him, your mate, he’s here, he came, just like he said he
would!—but Satoru tried to swallow it down, even as the slick slid down his
leg.
“Get,” he started, one foot sliding backwards, “get away from me!”
The alpha stared at him for a long moment, unmoving, until the police officer’s
movements slowed to a stop. Then, Yashiro lifted his foot from the man’s hand,
purposefully stepping closer to his mate. Satoru’s entire body tensed, bracing
itself as Yashiro closed the distance. The older man stopped in front of him, a
pleased and fond sigh escaping his lips from behind the mask.
“After all these years,” Yashiro whispered, reaching up and brushing his
fingers across Satoru’s cheek, “you truly haven’t changed.”
Satoru stared up at his face, and felt something inside of him snap like a
thread.
His knees were the first to go. There was a moment of freefall as Satoru’s legs
gave out underneath him, his body lurching forward. Two arms wound themselves
around him, catching him and cradling him against someone’s chest. Yashiro
clutched him close, whispering comforts into his ear as he lowered Satoru
towards the ground. Distantly, he could hear the IV stand clatter to the floor,
bouncing in the blood before lying still.
A desperate whine escaped Satoru’s throat, and he squirmed in Yashiro’s grip,
the heat engulfing his body like wildfire. The logical part of him knew he
needed to fight back, needed to get away—but none of his limbs were
cooperating, all of them stiff and twitching. Even his head had rolled back,
his neck wide-open and exposed; gently, he felt someone’s thumb brushing
against his throat, hovering above his scent gland.
Satoru’s eyes fell half-closed, his breath hitching in his chest. “D-don’t—”
“Shh,” Yashiro whispered, pressing down. Satoru’s mouth fell open, the last of
the fight ebbing out of his bones. He wanted to protest, to fight back—but
everything was already getting muddled in his brain, the finger swirling firm
circles against his skin. Every muscle had turned limp, his arms and legs
hanging uselessly and unmoving. Even his vision was blurring, the world fading
together into colours and shapes.
He opened his mouth to call for help, but all that left his throat was a
shuddering moan.
“That’s it,” Yashiro continued encouragingly. Eventually, the finger left his
throat—and Satoru could feel an arm looping itself under his knees, the other
adjusting itself to cradle him his shoulders. With a small grunt from the older
man, Satoru felt himself being lifted, his head landing against the crook of
Yashiro’s neck. Eagerly, he inhaled that familiar scent: leather and lollipops,
just as strong as it was that day. It filled something in Satoru that he didn’t
realize had been empty; a void in his own heart, screaming out for his mate.
“Don’t worry, Satoru,” Yashiro said, carefully stepping over the corpse. “No
one will separate us again.”
Weakly, he gave a little hum, his eyes finally slipping closed. How strange:
like this, in Yashiro’s arms, with the scent of blood still clinging to them
both—for the first time since waking up, all those weeks ago—
Satoru felt completely at peace.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     t-this feels like the most sinful thing I've written by far, somehow.
***** Yashisato, kidnapped by a siren AU *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
Hubris.
He was born from the very belly of the sea. His body was a wound that festered
down in the world’s very core, crawling along its craggy skin; his existence
little more than a thousand limbs and teeth, gnashing and swirling, like ink in
the infinite dark. He was a tangled mass of writhing, subsisting on spite alone
as the cold unfeeling current slowly rocked him awake.
And it was there, in the bed of that abysmal ocean, that he found an uneasy
awareness. A sense of an Iand a me, extending in every direction—tendrils of a
self, slipping out from him and into the beyond. With something akin to
desperation, he stretched out in every direction, blindly feeling for
something—anything—in the void.
But there was nothing. Nothing but his own listless twisting, both inside and
out: something that he would quickly recognize as pain,panging and sharp. His
body rumbled, a low growl that made the waters around him shiver; his barbed
tongue lapped at the salty sea, tasting, wanting. There would be a name for
this some day—something he would learn to call hunger—but he did not know that
then.
All he knew was that he had to feed.
The ocean floor was below him, a mangled and sheet of bedrock beneath his
bones.
So, with a click of his tongue, he ascended. Farther, further, until—
A shape moved in the darkness, and he lunged.
All of his boundless limbs converged on the thing, a single firm tentacle
wrapping around its struggling mass. The thing was pathetically small compared
to himself, barely the size of one of his eyes; young as he still was, even he
knew it had never stood a chance. The creature screamed, a low wail that echoed
in the empty water, as it was pushed into the monster’s maw.
His teeth snapped down with an audible crunch, and all was still.
For a moment, his thoughts melted away, his mind and body lulled by the foreign
taste. It was bitter and deep and delicious, the metallic scent seeping into
the sea’s salty brine. Hopelessly, he lapped at the water, savouring the last
of his kill before it diluted down to nothing.
A furious shudder quaked through his very existence, and he knew that he wanted
more.
Fortunately for him, whales moved in groups.
 
 
He can still remember when he saw it for the first time.
His body had been twisting and twirling in the water, navigating his way
through the black with nothing to follow but his own clicking, trusting the
sound. In hindsight, he must have been slowly making his way
upwards—instinctually chasing the whales who had dared to dive too deep, lured
by the taste of their blood sitting heavy in his memory. But for now, he
allowed himself a short rest. An infinite moment to simply float, letting
himself go limp in the abyss.
And then—a single pinprick, nothing more than a speck of dust in the distance.
Something blinding and beautiful and bright,a thread of white winding down into
the depths of the sea.
The sight of it was burned into the slits of his eyes, igniting him from the
inside out. Yes, he hated the ocean floor: he despised the dark, the void, the
cold and empty hell that it was. But he had never even considered that there
could be something else, his still-primitive brain never once managing to even
imagine the possibility.
And yet, there it was.
For a few precious heartbeats, he just remained there, hanging motionless in
the sunlight.
Then, like a demon possessed, he chased it down.
 
 
Hubris.
Life in the sunny sea was, for the first time, a life worth living. His slitted
pupils dilated, trying in vain to soak up that beautiful, infinite blue. For
years, he contented himself with skimming the surface of the water, teasing at
the world above. The prey was abundant, and every living thing in the ocean had
learned to fearhim—they swam for their pitiful lives, his name whispered on the
waves in whales’ songs.
Below, he had been little more than scum, sucking on the algae that fell down
like rain. But here, he ruled,directing the currents and feeling the sea roil
against his limbs. And when he hummed—when the sounds rumbled out of his maw
like froth—his prey always came back, transfixed by the tune and swimming into
his waiting teeth.
The only exception was them.
At first he just watched them, and assumed they were beasts of a stranger kind.
But no: the flesh was hard like tortoise shells, but it splintered when he
prodded at it hard enough. The things rocked back and forth on top of the
waves, but otherwise, never reacted to his presence. They were like driftwood,
but sturdier, stronger, their white wings scratching at the clouds.
And he hated them. Their shadows cut darkness across his domain, fearlessly
floating above his head. So he did as he always had: he sang, the noise
gargling out of his throat and bubbling past the barrier that separated the sea
and sky. He trilled a song about a darkness they could never imagine, a
beautiful light blotted by their boats, a world they carelessly trampled upon
with every row of their oars.
And when they followed his song overboard—when they threw themselves into his
mouth as so many before had done—he crushed their bones, feeling them snap
between his teeth. The marrow inside was sweet, and he gulped it all down, his
limbs pushing their pitiful limbs into his maws. He tore at the sinew and the
skin, until all that was left of them was a cloud of red in the water.
When there were no more souls left alive, he took their ship and threw it
against the rocks: a warning to the others, not to trifle with the sea.
They didn’t listen.
More of them came: dozens, hundreds more. Little men, crawling like krill
aboard their vessels, pretending to be gods. As with those that came before, he
lured them down, his song making their ears bleed and their minds melt in their
skulls. In the moments before he struck, he could hear their whispering on the
waves. Siren waters,they warned each other. Demon music.
Eventually, they learnt to stuff their ears. The first time his song had
failed, he raged, tearing through reefs and crushing coral beneath his limbs.
He snatched the humans from their decks and cracked their skulls open with his
teeth, gnawing on the bone and digging the wax out of their heads by force. Out
of spite, he didn’t even consume them—he left the corpses to the barnacles and
the sharks, mangled and broken.
And then he realized: why lure them to their deaths, when he could bring it to
them instead?
So he surged upon them like a tidal wave, his tentacles tangling about their
ships. He felt the wood cracking underneath his limbs, felt their spears trying
to sink into his flesh—he roared to the sky, dragging their sinking sails into
the deep. Their screams were music to his muscles, and he shivered with the
melody, ripping their hubris apart plank by plank, limb from limb.
But he watched as that one lifeboat rowed frantically away. Even after the last
hint of their vessel sank below, he followed them. He skulked after them,
following their pitiful attempt at escape, his head half-breaching the water.
Because he wanted them to see him: he wanted the sun to show them his form,
sprawled beneath their boat. In the middle of the night, he wanted the
moonlight to reflected the yellow of his eyes so they would know:
They hadn’t escape him. Nothing ever did.
When they were picked up by a passing ship, delusional with dehydration and
raving like madmen—even then, he watched them. And when the curious crew leaned
over the railings, pointing at his shape in the water, he growled.His tentacles
smashed tsunamis out of the calm waters, the water cresting well above their
puny heads.
See me!he snarled. Know they speak the truth, and tell your brethren of what
you’ve seen this day.
And when he sank below, he left nothing but bubbles in his wake.
 
 
They gave him a new name, after that. One that sounded like their ships
cracking under his grip, like snapping bones and bodies broken against the
stones.
Kraken.
 
 
And yet, still they came.
He still destroyed them, of course—leaving little more than a crimson stain and
a shredded sail to say they had ever been. Over the decades, some of them had
fanciful ideas of how to deal with him. Weighted nets made of metal and ore;
devices that boomed like thunder and buried bullets in his belly; steam-powered
machines that dove into his wake, chasing him into the deep.
(The last one was particularly fun to play with. The humans were trapped in the
cage of their own making, like hermit crabs cowering in their shells. He didn’t
even need to pull them out: he just shook the contraption back and forth as
quickly as he could, until that little windshield was splattered red.)
But, ultimately, he was outnumbered. Drag down one ship, and within days
another would take its place. Humans multiplied with a speed that rivaled any
fish he had ever seen, and it became increasingly clear that he was fighting a
current: a flow of one-way force, something he could not shift. The revelation
was not a pleasant one—for many moons, he sulked in the trenches of the ocean,
hissing at the world above.
At the edge of his hiding hole, a school of mating fish buried their eggs,
concealing them beneath the sand.
He watched, and a thrilled trill burst out of his mouth.
 
 
The next time a ship coasted above his domain, he did nothing.
The humans rejoiced to their good fortune on their deck, celebrating how they
had crossed his waters unharmed. For now, he would let them revel in this so-
called miracle, let them dance to their victory against the odds. But he was
still there: his fluorescent eyes watching them from the dark, looming
underneath their feet. As they sailed, he stalked them from the murky gloom,
his tongue licking at his sharpened teeth.
Days, he followed, banefully snapping at the silhouette of the ship above.
Below him, the ocean floor crept closer, the depth disappearing from beneath
his mass. The waters became thinner, clearer—and he kept himself confined to
their shadow, his limbs tucked tight against his body. It would not do to be
seen now, not when he was so close to his goal.
And then, they arrived.
From afar, he watched as their ship slipped into the human spawning grounds.
They had built themselves a nest on rocks and earth, like a reef jutting out
from the sea. Lights twinkled across the island, reflecting little suns across
the water. Carefully, he maneuvered closer, his head barely peeking out of the
waves.
The little humans were scattering away from their ship, their feet carrying
themselves further inland. With a low rumble, he watched as they walked out of
his reach, away from the oceanside.
A single thing stood between him and the human’s nest: legs.
He gave a low hum and let himself drop beneath the tide, languidly allowing
himself to be pulled out by the undertow. The humans may think that they are
safe there, beyond the sandy beaches and the rocky shores. Tonight, they may be
able to hide in the little huts they had made, sheltering them from the ocean
wind. But they had intruded on his sea, his domain.
In time, he would do the same.
 
 
Hubris.
Yashiro Gaku sank into the alley’s shadows, his shoulders hunching around
himself. Slowly, took a long draw from his cigarette; the still-foreign smoke
and fire settled into his lungs, and he held it as long as he dared, feeling
the heat burning in his chest. The feeling was brand new, and despite the
warmth, he felt a shiver shuddering down his bones. At long last, he let the
smoke slip back out with a sigh—but he revelled in the scorching on his tongue,
licking the last of the ash off his lip.
Humans got some things right at least. Sucking on his tobacco, he shifted his
weight back and forth, swaying from leg to leg. The muscles felt sturdy enough
under his skin, paper-thin as it may be. The freshly-made bones seemed to groan
under his weight, but they stood fast, unmoving. He plucked the cigarette from
his mouth and exhaled, tapping it until the end glowed red.
It had taken years of practice to get this far. He couldn’t tolerate a misstep
now, not when he finally had feet to step with at all. Not after all this time.
Not that he knew how long that was to begin with. He stole one last taste
before tossing the butt to the ground and stamping it out with his heel. Time
had become meaningless down there, sequestered as he had been. Despite every
natural instinct, he had forced his eyes away from the surface to study,
focusing the ocean floor. For decades he watched the way anemones contracted
into nothing—their tentacles curling into themselves, disappearing under a
layer of skin.
It took even longer until he figured it out for himself. But, eventually, he’d
managed to compress his body down. He was able to hide his nature under the
guise of humanity, his gargantuan form just barely restrained by muscle and
flesh. Yashiro brought his fist to his face, slowly unfurling his fingers. The
tentacles burst out of his palm, eager and willing—and he scoffed to himself,
before shoving his hand back into the pockets of his coat.
Good. Being trapped in this form would be a fate far worse than death.
With practiced steps, he slipped out of the alleyway and back into the sun. The
heat on his skin was still a shock to his system. He was accustomed to the
chill of the deep, and he suppressed another shudder as the sunlight settled
against his skin. This was the problem with humans: they were so small, so
pitifully fragile—everything affected them in spades. Even the sunlight burned
them, and they were bornunder it.
Pathetic.
But he bit his tongue, and turned up the collar of his coat. His clothes still
smelled of the sea, the seams crusted with a thick layer of salt—but it would
have to do. In the future, he’ll have to find somewhere dry to hide his human
disguises; there were only so many times he could get away with walking through
the streets soaking wet.
But for now, no one seemed to give him a second glance. Stiffly, he turned and
followed the crowd, his strides falling into pace with their own. Even after
mastering this form, he spent time carefully crafting the charade, watching the
humans mill about from beyond the shore. Mostly, they travelled in schools, and
he was—well, solitary.Even now, the sheer amount of them, jostling him on all
sides, felt stifling compared to the open ocean.
Every instinct called for him to dive back beneath the waves, but he turned his
back on the water, his jaw sent. He knew these inlets and bays well enough; it
was the rest of the nest that concerned him. The winding streets held secrets,
riddles hiding like crabs beneath unturned stones. Humans were, if nothing
else, crafty—he needed to be sure there were no hidden surprises before he sank
this entire wretched island into the sea.
He swallowed down the pleased clicking he was used to, and settled for what the
humans called a smile.
 
 
Beneath the surface, it had been easy to survey the world around him: all he
had to do was swim towards the surface, and the ocean would spread itself out
beneath his limbs, a feast for the senses. Naturally, the same concept would
apply here—a thing the humans called “seeking higher ground.” Luckily, the
human’s nest was on an incline, the land swelling up underneath their huts like
a wave. All he had to do was get to the top of it.
A feat that proved infinitely more difficult on land.
Yashiro commanded his feet to climb ever upwards, crawling his way up the hill.
His raw and unused joints weren’t used to this kind of exertion—or,
anyexertion, for that matter. Everything beneath the surface was wonderfully
weightless, but the world above was a different beast. He was constantly
fighting against the air, gravity trying to suck him down like a whirlpool.
Something wet was seeping out of his skin, and when he licked at his lips,
Yashiro tasted salt. Maybe he still carried the sea with him, after all.
When he finally crested the hill, he took a moment in the shade to gulp down
breath. The sun had already dipped lower in the sky, and it took most the heat
with it—but that did nothing to ease the hot that was still crawling underneath
his clothes. Disdainfully, he glared up at the sky. All he wanted to do was
crawl back into the water, find a dark hole to curl into and revel in that
blissful, bitter cold.
“Soon,” he whispered to himself. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded
croaking and strange. He had eavesdropped on enough drunken sailors to know
what they sounded like, had memorized their words—but his vocal cords were
rusted like anchor chains, rattling and stiff. Another thing he would have to
practice.
There was a humming sound in his ears, and Yashiro scowled. That was a habit he
would have to break, too.
But when he touched his hand to his throat, he found it… still.
His constructed body stiffened, before slowly relaxing. That’s right: humans
had learned to hum too. And of course there was someone nearby: that was the
humans’ nature—to take up every inch of space, to tread even where they should
not dare.His eyes narrowed as he straightened his spine, chin tilted upwards;
too easily, he slipped back behind the illusion of a man, a polite smile drawn
onto his face.
With slow, loping steps, he continued to follow the thin lane as it rounded the
corner—and then he stopped.
A stone balcony was built into the hilltop, sea stones sealed together to form
a low wall. On the other side lay the spawning grounds, the entirety of it
unfurled before his eyes, like a sheet of algae floating on the sea. The earth
itself sloped down towards the ocean, houses crowding the alleys and roads, a
hundred windows filled with a thousand lights.
But in between him and any of that was a human.
Yashiro tilted his head to the side. The—short hair,he reminded himself,
man—sat on a three-legged stool, his back to the road. There was a song
rumbling out of the human’s throat, a wordless melody absently whispered on the
wind. A sharp scent was seeped in the air, and it made him want to stuff his
nose. His eyes narrowed on the thing the human was holding in his hand: a plank
of wood, covered in thick, wet colours. Every couple of seconds, he dipped some
kind of tool into the hues, before turning his attention back to his task.
Yashiro watched for a moment more, before he took a tentative step forward.
The humming stopped.
Slowly, the human turned around in his seat, and Yashiro stared into eyes as
blue as the sea.
“Ah,” the human started, his occupied hands hovering uselessly in the air.
“Hello.”
Yashiro cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the last of the muck from his
gullet, and repeated: “Hello.”
There was a second of silence, and Yashiro took advantage, staring at the…
strange human. Those eyes reminded him of the ocean and the tides, swirling and
deep; for all of his stalking of mankind, never had he seen anything like them
before. Some kind of contraption was balanced on his nose, and he blinked at
Yashiro from behind glass lenses. Even his hair reminded him of the waters,
black like the trenches where he’d been born.
The human shifted a little, those eyes darting away—and Yashiro felt a pang
ring out from his chest.
“Uhm,” he started, scratching at his face with the edge of his tool. It was
like a blade, but small and flat; hardly a suitable weapon at all.
Unthreatening. “Are you… you’re here for the view, I guess? Don’t let me bother
you.”
“Yes, I am,” he responded, weighing every syllable as they tumbled out of his
mouth. And he should have stopped there, but curiosity pulled his treacherous
feet forward, his eyes falling to the palette in the stranger’s hand. “What are
you doing?”
“Me?” The man looked down at his tools, before turning back to his work. “Just
painting.”
“Painting,” Yashiro echoed, the foreign word sitting strangely in his mouth.
The man had said it like a self-evident truth, so he didn’t ask what it was,
opting to watch instead. There was a three-legged structure, holding up what
looked like sail-cloth stretched onto a frame. With careful movements, the man
spread the colour onto his knife, before sliding it against the canvas.
Yashiro tipped his head to the side, stepping closer. It looked like—but it
couldn’t be—
“The sea,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” the man agreed, pausing to peer out towards the bay. “It’s beautiful
around this time, isn’t it?”
It was. Yashiro followed his gaze out, and watched as the sinking sun danced in
the waves. Light caught the ripples in the water, splashing oranges and purples
across his eyes. He dropped his gaze back to the ‘painting,’ and saw the same
shades there, immortalized against the cloth. Mesmerized, he moved closer. How
had a human managed to capture the entire ocean with only his hand?
“It’s—it isn’t done,” he explained hastily, his fingers clutching at his
utensil.
Yashiro watched him. What was it the human had said? “Don’t let me bother you.”
The human blinked up at him for a long second, before a small, sheepish smile
broke out on his face. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t.”
 
 
Yashiro found himself some dry clothes, and returned the next day.
It wasn’t in the plan. He was supposed to take his time with the humans’ nest:
only going occasionally, the visits erratic so he would not be recognized. The
last thing he needed was someone realizing what he was—at least, not before the
time was right. The more time he spent among man, the more likely one would
spot him for what he truly was.
Yet, here he was, on land once again.
Because he hadn’t had a chance to properly survey the spawning grounds, he told
himself. The human had interrupted him. The ‘painter’ remained on the hill
until after the sun had set, so he was no more knowledgeable of their den than
he was before. It was only prudent to finish what he had started, so he could
begin properly planning.
He still abhorred this hill, though. It would be the first thing he crushed,
when he finally razed this place to the ground. But for now, he was still
forced to climb it, his legs aching as he pushed them up the incline. Luckily,
clouds had rolled in, cutting up the heat—it made the whole thing more
bearable, and this time he reached the summit with only a hint of moisture on
his brow.
When he rounded the corner, the painter was there again.
For some reason, Yashiro found he didn’t really mind—but his breath caught in
his throat, all the same. His hands stiffly adjusted the collar of his coat as
he meandered over, trying to keep his presence as unobtrusive as possible.
Clearly, not enough: he barely managed a few steps before the human stopped,
turning to look at him. “You’re back.”
Was that suspicious? Did humans not usually return to the same places?
Impossible: they seemed more than content to return to the sea, over and over
again. So he simply pointed out: “So are you.”
“I’m not done,” he said with a little shrug, before turning back to his canvas.
Ah, there was progress: thin clouds were beginning to dot the sky, and sea
spray was bubbling on top of the waves. The palette was covered in shades of
white, some of them brighter or bluer than others. He’d never imagined that one
colour could hold so many hues. “I’ll probably finish it up today, though. What
about you?”
“The view,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, really: he had come here to see the
entirety of the nest again. He easily side-stepped the artist, moving towards
the edge of the outcropping. Hands in his pockets, he stared down at the
humans’ den, his eyes darting across the thin streets. It was fairly straight
forward, the entire thing plotted out like a net, most of the roads rushing
down towards the sea.   
Slowly, his eyes dragged along the lanes. There were none of those infuriating
cannon things as far as he could tell. Some ships were fitted with them, but
those would be clustered down by the port, easy enough to deal with. He knew
already that this was the only human settlement on the rock the humans called
home. All in all, this might be much easier than he had anticipated.
He shifted closer for a better look, and felt his foot nudge against something.
There was a bag on the ground, leaning against the low wall; a sad sack made
out of worn brown fabric and paint stains, the edges of it frayed by use.
Without even looking inside, he knew it was mostly empty, the leather sagging
against the stones.
And lying on top of it was a book. Yashiro raised an eyebrow, and plucked it
up, turning it over in his hand. He’d seen some of these things, floating in
the wreckage of the ships he’d sunk. But they were usually thicker than this,
and had some kind of marking or scribble on the front. He’d never seen the
rhyme or reason to it, honestly—but this one was completely blank on the
outside, the leather as smooth as slate.
“That’s my sketchbook, if you’re wondering.”
Yashiro turned. The man was leaning in close to his canvas, and in the
reflection of his lenses, Yashiro could see the painter’s work, foam and waves
against glass. But he finally surrendered with a long-suffering sigh,
stretching his arms above his head as he stood. His shoulders and bones cracked
with the effort, and the sound made Yashiro’s mouth water, the familiar taste
of blood jumping to the forefront of his mind.
The palette and knife were left temporarily abandoned on the easel. The man
crossed the distance, walking over to the balcony proper. Yashiro watched as
the human seated himself on top of the railing, his back turned to the sun and
sea. A breeze rolled up from the shore, tangling in their clothes and carrying
the sharp tang of seaweed and brine.
“Finished already?” Yashiro asked, holding the book out to its owner.
The man took it back with a shake of his head, sighing. “Not yet. Just waiting
for this layer to dry a little more—the colours are mixing too much.” His thumb
ran affectionately over the little book, dark bangs falling across his eyes.
“But oil paints take a while to dry, so I tend to draw in the meantime. It
gives me something to do.”
His hand casually slipped under the cover, flipping it open. His fingers, still
dyed with the colours of the sea, moved slowly and solemnly across the pages.
From his place, Yashiro could just barely see the shapes scratched onto the
pages. Black figures were drawn in thin lines of ink, and interest pulled him
closer. He leaned his hips against the balcony as he peered over the man’s
shoulder, holding his breath.
The ocean was scattered there. Yashiro could feel his mouth parting, his eyes
darting over the pages. It was like someone had lifted it all—the caves, the
coves, the crashing waves and sea shells and sand—and pressed it to the paper,
locking it inside a sketch. He found himself leaning closer, until he could
smell the soft scent of soap clinging to the human’s hair—but he didn’t care.
Because he wanted to, needed to see every detail. There: the meticulously
sculpted scales of every fish, the etched lines of starfish drying on a rocky
beach. He could feel the human shifting, ever-so-slightly leaning away—but that
made it harder to see, so he followed, keeping their shoulders pressed
together.
Briefly, his eyes flickered to the man’s face. How odd: he never knew they
could turn pink before.
“Do you, uh,” the human said, his voice sounding oddly strangled, “what do you
think?”
Yashiro raised an eyebrow at him, a smile tugging at his lips. “I think it’s
spectacular.”
“Oh.” The man blinked at him. “Really?”
The kraken felt his brow furrowing. Did the human think he was deceiving him?
Well, in a way, he was, just by being in this form—but the compliment itself
was genuine. He had never seen one of their ilk approach the sea with such
kindness, such… humility.It was—refreshing. “Of course.”
His face softened then, like foam melting on hot sand. “Thank you,” he
muttered, looking back at the book in his hands. The curve of mouth was joyless
and dry, and he traced the spine of the leather with his thumb. “That is kind
of you. Most people just tell me that I’m just wasting my time.”
The rage crackled under his skin like lightning, the echoes of it rumbling
through his compressed core. Under his coat, he could feel his tentacles
breaking free along his spine, itching to crush something in their grip. Of
course the humans did not recognize this one redeemable thing about their kind:
their pride would not allow it, and Yashiro felt his blunt teeth grinding
against each other.
With a shocking calm, he said: “Then they are fools.”
The human stared at him for a moment, shocked—but then his lips curled, a laugh
bursting out of his mouth. Yashiro didn’t particularly see what was so funny,
but the human seemed to be enjoying it; it was enough to lull his tentacles
under his skin again, his slimy jacket lying flat against his back once more.
Oblivious, the human slipped a finger under the page. “Would you like to see
more?”
“Yes,” Yashiro breathed, fueled by a curiosity he could not explain. Not since
he had first seen that thread of daylight had something grippedhim like this,
as if he were not the hunter but the prey. And while the feeling was new and
foreign and strange, he couldn’t help but revel in it. He felt like a little
sardine, floating all too happily into the angler’s jaws, too content to bother
breaking the spell.
The human flipped through the little book, explaining the things he’d seen, the
reasons he’d sketched them down. There: a little crab he’d found scuttling by
the wading pools, and a flock of seagulls, trying to pry open a clam with their
beaks. With time, the man stopped attempting to lean away, and Yashiro could
feel each of his warm breaths landing across his cheek.
Then he turned the page, and Yashiro felt his entire body turn to ice.
Those twisting tentacles, the razor-sharp teeth: all of it was familiar to him,
painfullyso, and he just barely managed to gulp down the thrilled chirping that
tried to bubble out of his throat. His true form was barely locked under his
skin, and all of it squirming and writhing beneath the disguise, practically
buzzing with glee. “That is…”
“Oh, this?” the man asked, tapping at the drawing. He looked back over to
Yashiro, his head tilted. “Have you never heard the legend of the kraken
before?”
Yashiro whipped his head around, aghast. “Legend?”
“Uh, yes?” The painter looked down at the page. “They say it owns these seas. A
sailor from my village saw it once, apparently. A long time ago.” He turned to
stare back towards the water, squinting into sun. “It supposedly dragged his
entire ship under. He and a few others escaped on a lifeboat, but he said it
followed them for days. Just… watching them, from beneath the surface.”
He gave a little shrug then, scratching at his cheek. “Well, they also said he
was absolutely mad by the time he came ashore. But… who knows?” he whispered,
his tone wistful and soft. “Maybe he really did see something out there.”
Yashiro listened, and wanted to roar. Wanted to let his true form burst out of
the box he’d crushed it into, wanted to feel his tentacles surging like a
storm. Before, he’d wanted the humans to fear him, yes; but now he just wanted
this one to seehim.For the briefest of moments, he considered it: considered
leading him with a hum down to a secluded bay and proudly ripping away the lie.
He could already feel the song, rumbling in his belly and crawling up his
throat.
Instead, what he said was: “Why do you draw the sea?”
The human jumped a little, jolted out of his thoughts. “Why…?” he repeated,
before sheepishly rubbing at the nape of his neck with a frown. “It’s not a
very good reason, honestly.”
“Tell me.”
The man continued to stare out towards the port, a shadow steadily falling
across his eyes. His lips pressed together into a thin line, and when his voice
slipped out, it was so quiet it was almost whisked away by the wind.
“Because I’m terrified of it.”
The painter swallowed thickly, blinking something out of his eyes. “When I was
young, I almost drowned,” he explained, his stained fingers tangling together.
“To be honest, I… I don’t even remember what happened. But ever since, I’ve
been scared of the open water. I can’t even swim.”
“You live on an island,” Yashiro noted.
“I don’t,” he said, a small smile twisting at his lips. “I’m just visiting this
place. Honestly, I spent the entire trip aboard our ship cowering in my cabin.”
A bitter laugh splintered off of his lips, and he stared down at his white
knuckles. “I thought that if I… if I come here, and I draw all the things I
like about the ocean, then maybe I could stop being so scared of it.”
The monster watched him, unblinking and holding his breath. “Did you?”
“No,” he admitted. “The ocean—it’s beautiful, but…” He trailed off, clearly
sifting for the right words. He looked back down to his notebook, the image of
the kraken staring back at him. “We don’t really know anything about what’s
lurking down there. When I hear sailors saying they’re going to ‘conquer the
seas,’ it just sounds like—”
A shiver crawled over Yashiro’s limbs. “Hubris.”
A small scoff, followed by a tired smile. “Yeah, I suppose you could put it
that way,” he said, snapping the sketchbook shut. The smirk on his face
suddenly faded into something forced, something pained,and he added: “But I’m
just a coward.”
“You aren’t,” Yashiro said, a self-evident truth. With a disdainful glare, he
turned his attention to the spawning grounds, hate boiling in his veins. They
were the cowardly ones: too frightened to admit the truth, too willfully blind
see the danger lapping at their shores. “I think you are wise.”
The human was silent for a moment, staring up at Yashiro with wide eyes. The
kraken felt his cobbled heart beating, wild and untamed, in his chest. Perhaps
he had said too much, had given away that he wasn’t the same as the other pests
that crawled across the isle. His fingers twitched inside of his coat, the
tentacles slipping out from under his skin.
The best course of action was to kill the painter, before the suspicion could
spread.
The man’s lips parted, the words forming on his lips, but—
A loud ringing cut them off at the source. The human practically jumped out of
his skin, his mouth snapping shut. Immediately, his gaze turned back towards
the clock tower in the distance, already leaping to his feet. “Shit,” he
whispered, turning to look at the ticking machine strapped to his wrist. “I
didn’t realize it was this late. I—” He paused, looking up at Yashiro again,
swallowing thickly. “I have to go.”
Yashiro curled his fingers closed around his palm, tension leaking out of his
shoulders. “Of course,” he said, but the painter was already scuttling away,
shoving his notebook back into his sack and rushing back to his easel. The
monster followed a few paces behind, watching as the man lifted the painting
from its stand, carefully holding it by the edges. The canvas smelled tangy,
the paints still shiny and wet.
Yashiro turned his eyes to the easel, before plucking it up and tucking it
under his arm.
The painter blinked at him from behind his spectacles. “What are you…?”
This was the problem with their kind: too unaware of their own shortcomings.
His body was blessed with more limbs than he knew what to do with—humans, less
so. “You only have two arms,” he pointed out. “I will assist you.”
“Oh.” The human gave a small smile, that strange pink colour returning to his
face. “Thank you.”
 
 
The walk down to the town was uneventful and—pleasant. Their steps were careful
and slow, but not because of the incline: Yashiro found himself wanting to
stretch the time for all it was worth. There was something about this human in
particular that was completely new, like unchartered waters. It was as if he
were a mere hatchling again. Every time those sea-blue eyes turned his way,
something in him wanted to chase after them.
The human paused outside of a bustling doorway, his fingers drumming long the
edges of the painting. “This is me,” he muttered, nodding to the building. The
whole thing looked about as sturdy as the ‘sand-castles’ he’d seen the human
spawn making by the shore. Even from the street, Yashiro could hear the tell-
tale shouting of drunkards, the smell of stale ale floating out the open
windows. His nose curled in disgust.
The man gave a small snort, amused. “It’s not the quietest inn in the world,”
he said, “but it’s probably the cheapest.”
“I see,” Yashiro muttered, though he didn’t, not really. Even the shallowest,
most cramped of caves would be preferable to this squalor. Still, he held the
easel out to the human in silent offering; his patience was already waning, and
no mercy would be extended to the sailors who were cajoling inside. He could be
cautious, opting to bide his time and avoid the confrontation all-together.
It took a moment for the man to readjust his affairs, but he finally reclaimed
his stand, balancing it against his hip with one hand. All-together, the human
looked a little like one of those pregnant seahorses, pitifully over-encumbered
by his load. But Yashiro kept that comment to himself, instead tipping his head
as he had seen humans do. “Goodnight.”
The human watched him for another second, before replying: “Satoru.”
Yashiro stared at him blankly, and watched as the human’s mind seemed to
suddenly catch up with his mouth. “I mean—that’s,” he began, tripping over his
tongue. “It’s my name. Satoru—Fujinuma Satoru.” A slow and weak smile spread
across his face, wobbling and thin. “You already know everything else about me,
so… you might as well know that, too.”
“Ah,” Yashiro said. This was a human ritual, wasn’t it? The exchanging of
names. He’d heard the dolphins do it too, when encountering a new pod. With so
many of their kind rushing about, he supposed some distinction made sense. The
man whose coat he wore had had one too, something called by his widow,
screaming his name from the shore. A name he’d stolen, along with his clothes.
“Yashiro Gaku. A pleasure to meet you, Fujinuma Satoru.”
“Likewise,” Satoru replied, shifting his grip on his things. “And thanks for
helping me carry my stuff. I… I guess I’ll see you around, Yashiro.”
And with what few fingers were free, Satoru gave a short wave, before quickly
ducking through the doorway. For a few moments, Yashiro remained where he was,
listening to those quiet footsteps before they were swallowed by sea shanties.
After a minute or two, he tilted his head towards the sky; one of the dark
windows above his head began to glow with lamplight, and he released a relieved
sigh.
“Satoru,” he whispered, tasting the name on his tongue. There was a wonderful
cadence to it: the soft beginning before the sound crested and crashed, only to
ultimately sink away again. It was like a wave, like the ebb and flow of the
ocean. Like everything else about the human, from his hands to his eyes, it
screamed of the sea. Yashiro felt his lips curving into a sharp, thousand-
toothed grin.
If nothing else, the sea was—and always would be—his domain.
 
 
Like everything else in the ocean, Yashiro found himself adapting to a routine.
By the time the first slivers of sunlight crawled over the horizon, he was
already pulling himself out of the sea. There was a sheltered cove, nestled in
a rocky section of the shoreline, out of sight of the human’s nest-town-place.
His limbs grabbed hold of the stones, and he tugged himself into the hidden
waters, his head breaching the surface with a groan.
It was there, in the shallows, that he wound his body tight, turning tentacles
into tendons in the foam. The process would always be unfamiliar, strange,
unnatural; like trying to cram yourself into the tightest cavity you could
find. Every time, his body strained itself against his freshly-made skin,
begging for release. But he stamped the sensation down, and when he emerged, it
was with feet, his soles slapping against the wet sand.
By the time he strolled into the humans’ midst, many of them were already
awake, bustling from one place to the nest. With rusted coins and a fake smile,
Yashiro obtained cigarettes and matches, greedily stuffing it all into the
pockets of his coat. Then it was just a matter of combing the streets until he
found that pathetic excuse for a dwelling, his eyes dragging up to Satoru’s
shuttered window.
There was an alley across the street, the kind of narrow passage that was
always soaked in shadow. Yashiro settled into it easily, with only the taste of
tobacco for company.
Then, with smoke floating in front of his eyes, he watched.
Satoru was, obviously, unique, for more reasons that Yashiro could name. But
notably, he did not seem to have a routine. Some days, he rushed out of the inn
with a cap on his head and a jog in his step; other days, he moved like a sea
slug, swallowing yawns and glaring at the sun as if it had personally offended
him. The time, the mood, the destination—there was no rhyme or reason to it, no
patternthat Yashiro could identify.
Simply put: the best way to locate Satoru was by following him from the outset.
Yashiro would keep his eyes trained on the back of human’s head as he weaved
through the crowds, and eventually—“coincidentally”—they would run into each
other. Whether it was in the market or on the street, up on the hill or down by
the docks—no matter where or when, Yashiro would always, alwaysfind Fujinuma
Satoru.
Every time they met, the painter’s face bloomed into a smile, and something in
Yashiro crooned.
 
 
Today, he followed Satoru down the main road, curiosity nibbling at his
insides. When Satoru left the inn late, it was usually with bags under his eyes
and a certain slump to his step—the tell-tale signs of a late night, he’d
learnt. But this morning, it was as if there was a fresh wind in his sails: he
moved from shop to shop with a small, satisfied smile on his face and wicker
basket hanging off of one arm.
Peculiar. Yashiro stepped out of his hiding place, leisurely sauntering down
the road. Never directly towards Satoru, no—too obvious, too suspicious—but in
his general direction, his eyes glancing at nothing in particular. Usually it
would take little more than an accidental bump of shoulders, both of them
reaching to grab the same apple from a cart; something innocuous and—
A hand shot out and grabbed hold of his sleeve. “Yashiro!”
Ah. Eager, today. “Satoru,” he greeted, a smile stretched across his face.
“Good morning.”
“Thank god. I was hoping to find you,” the man sighed, his hand still not
leaving Yashiro’s arm. His eyes were impossibly bright behind his glasses, like
clear water in the sun. “I finally finished my painting last night. It’s still
drying, but I was hoping we could,” he lifted the basket, the smell of fresh
bread wafting into his nose, “celebrate or something? Only if you have time, of
course.”
“Of course,” he echoed, laying his fingers on top of Satoru’s own. He had seen
some humans do this, walking arm in arm; the feeling was oddly warm, but not
unpleasant, so he kept the painter’s hand pinned to his elbow. As he began to
walk, Satoru’s steps fell into time with his own, as natural as the tide. All
to easily, he pulled the human along in his current, offering in a whisper: “I
know the perfect place.”
And it wasperfect. No humans had ever breached the little cove he’d claimed as
his own. It was why he had chosen it: the bay was isolated, hidden away from
prying eyes, a place where he could shift his form in secrecy. It was meant to
remain that way—but now he helped Satoru down the slope, watching the human
awkwardly navigate the boulders that led down to the beach. Yashiro offered his
hand again, and Satoru took it, giving the last little hop onto the sand.
“Wow,” the man whispered, turning on his heel to look around. Yashiro stood
back and simply watched as the painter took it all in, a delighted chirp
bubbling in his chest. It came out as a half-laugh, and he stepped closer to
memorize the wonderment on Satoru’s face. The painter’s eyes were wide, his
cheeks flushed from the scramble down the rocky face, but he was smiling all
the same. “Yashiro, how did you even findthis place?”
Hunting. “Exploring.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I am glad you think so,” he said, and he meant it. There was a preening pride
buzzing underneath his skin at Satoru’s approval, and he held his hand out for
the basket. “Shall we?”
Together, they set down the thin blanket that Satoru had brought with him,
spreading it out on the warm sand. Their shoes pinned the corners down, and
Yashiro forced his toes not to devolve into ten little tentacles squirming
towards the sea. Just in case, he sat back against his heels, watching as
Satoru pulled freshly basked bread, soft cheeses and cured meat from the
basket. “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses. “So
I got a bit of everything.”
Yashiro’s eyes immediately fell to the meat, his mouth watering and teeth
aching with the need to feel something snap under his molars. It wouldn’t
squirm or bleed, but it would do. “Thank you.”
Satoru tugged the stopper out of a flask, the cork coming loose with an audible
pop. “I should be the one thanking you, honestly,” he muttered, holding out the
drink. Yashiro took it and gave a quick sniff, one of his eyebrows raising. He
knew this smell: not as common as ale but just as sharp, a dark purple that
seeped out shipwrecked casks.
“Satoru, is this wine?”
The painter’s face burned pink, and he pointedly avoided Yashiro’s eyes as he
broke the bread, crumbs tumbling into his lap. “It’s a celebration, isn’t it?”
Cute. Yashiro watched him for a second before taking a slow and careful sip.
His nose wrinkled as the taste crashed against his senses, but it
wasn’t—terrible. Pleasantly bitter, not unlike the blood he lapped up at every
meal. He licked the spare drops off his lips as he handed it back to Satoru. “I
suppose it is.”
The sun reached its apex in the sky as they ate, and they found themselves
shedding extra layers to compensate for the heat. Their coats and vests sat
forgotten in the sand, shirt sleeves rolled up to their elbows. As they passed
the flask back and forth, they traded questions, sipping at each other’s
histories. Satoru asked him about his home, his family, what he did when he
wasn’t here.And Yashiro offered the prepared lies: that he had no family left,
that was born on a barren island in the sea, that he was a hunter by trade (and
a very good one).
In exchange, Satoru told him about his home: a port city named Ishikari,
sitting on the “mainland” (whatever that was) somewhere east of here. His only
family was his mother, though they saw each other less and less over the years.
He started drawing because the other children would go and play in the waves;
more often than not, Satoru was left behind on the shoreline, with only a pen
and some paper for company.
“We are both solitary creatures, then,” Yashiro thought aloud, before tearing
into a stick of meat.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Satoru muttered, bringing the flask back to his lips.
Before he could take a sip, he stopped, his eyes fixed ahead. “Hey. Are
those…?”
Yashiro watched him for a curious second as he chewed, before following his
gaze out to the mouth of the cove. There were dark, round shapes bobbing
against the surface, noses poking out of the water and sniffing at the air.
“Seals,” Yashiro confirmed, swallowing down his food. Luckily for them, he was
no longer hungry. Besides, they were too—plushfor his tastes. Too pumped with
blubber and fat to be really satisfying.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Satoru scrambling for his sketchbook
and pen, never tearing his eyes away from the water. “I’ve never seen one
before.”
Yashiro stared at him, before turning his attention out to the herd. “Would you
like to draw them?”
“If they get close enough,” Satoru said, rapidly flicking through the pages
until he found one that was blank. “I doubt they will, though.”
The kraken tapped his fingers against his thigh, a slow smile curling onto his
face. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said, before letting out a low hum. Low
enough that it wouldn’t be caught by human ears, the sound slipping beneath the
water and into the brine. Yashiro could tell the moment his song hit them: the
way their splashing stuttered to a halt, soothed by a lullaby that beckoned
them closer.
Entranced, the animals made their way towards them—and Yashiro continued his
tune, whispering words of comfort and sunshine and sand into their ears. At his
side, he could hear Satoru’s breath cut in his throat, but he didn’t dare
comment on it; not when he needed to focus, his human vocal chords still wild
and unruly in his throat.
One by one, the seals crawled their way out of the foam, bouncing
unceremoniously in order to climb the shore. Yashiro stopped only once they
were sufficiently beached, their bellies buried in the wet sand. The song would
be stuck in their skulls for a little while longer, so they simply lay there,
sleepy with complacency and basking in the midday heat.
And slowly, Satoru crawled closer, moving on all fours with his book in one
hand and pen in the other. There was a near-silent exhale, something like
wonder or amazement leaving him in a single breath. With careful movements, he
immediately turned to his task, balancing his sketchbook on his knee. Yashiro
shuffled closer as well, his shoulder brushing against Satoru’s own; he
watched, mesmerized, as the animals began to come to life on the page, reborn
in scratches of ink.
Every so often, one of the animals would shift—and Yashiro’s eyes snapped up,
narrowed and daring, a threatening hum rumbling out of his throat. If Satoru
noticed, he gave no sign, his gaze darting back and forth between his subject
and his work.
Eventually, the flicking of the pen ebbed—turning from a frantic storm to a
tepid tide, delicate little details dotting the page. With a careful hand,
Satoru added the whiskers on their snouts, the wrinkles under their chins, the
sun shining off their dark eyes. After a few seconds of pause, he slowly tilted
his sketchbook in Yashiro’s direction, his voice quiet. “What do you think?”
“It’s excellent.”
“I never knew they had fur,”he murmured, half-heartedly adding a couple of
extra thin lines to the sketch’s pelt. “They always call it ‘sealskin,’ so I
thought it was—well, just skin.” He paused, eyes narrowing behind his glasses
as he stared at the animals. “I wonder what it feels like...”
Well, that was easily solved. “Touch one.”
Satoru sputtered, staring at him with wide-eyes. “What?! No!”
Yashiro raised an eyebrow. Seals were hardly a threat to a human. “Why not?”
“Because!” Satoru hissed, his gaze darting between the kraken and the prey.
“They’re—I’ll probably just scare them off before I even get close. Or they’ll
bite me, or something!”
But Yashiro was already grabbing Satoru by the wrist, tugging him closer to the
seals. The siren hum rippled out of his vocal cords, keeping the animals docile
and still—or else.The threat must have anchored itself into their heads,
because the piles of blubber weren’t dumb enough to move. Only their chests
moved, rapidly rising and falling. Yashiro could practically taste the fear he
saw in their beady little eyes, watching as their ultimate predator stepped
closer.
Still holding tight to Satoru’s wrist, he steadily crouched down by one of the
huffing mammals, feeling its breath brushing against his ankle. Along the way,
Satoru had stopped protesting, his mouth shut but muscles stiff, lips pressed
into a firm line. Yashiro had to tug him down to his knees, pulling his
unwilling limbs next to him in the sand.
Slowly, Yashiro loosened his grip, until his palm was brushing against the back
of Satoru’s hand. His fingers traced the veins under the human’s skin, feeling
the hot blood thrumming underneath his touch. Satoru’s skin was warm from the
sun, bits of sand clinging to his pores—Yashiro carefully swiped it away, his
thumb grazing against his knuckles. He knew Satoru was watching him, but never
once did he pull away, his fingers hanging limp under Yashiro’s touch.
Trusting.
Yashiro sighed through his nose, before draping his hand delicately over
Satoru’s, and pushing it down. It was a gentle force, the barest of
pressure—but Satoru folded underneath it all the same, allowing his fingers to
be pressed against the seal’s plush side. The human’s breath caught in his
throat, his entire body jumping, as if trying to flee.
But none of them moved, and Yashiro slowly retracted his hand with a small
smirk. “There you go.”
Satoru just numbly nodded, finally letting go of a breath he must have been
holding, his shoulders sinking. There was that curious pink again, flushing on
his cheeks and crawling up to his ears. What a strange human habit, like the
opposite of camouflage. He’d have to ask Satoru about that, eventually. But
right now, he was content just watching the human’s hand settle against the
thin hairs. Slowly, Satoru began to stroke down the seal’s flank, feeling every
deep inhale underneath his palm.
The awe spread like sunshine across the human’s face, a quiet laugh bubbling
out of his throat.
Yashiro leaned back, propping his elbow on his knee. “How is it?”
“Soft. And… a little slimy,” he admitted, his nose wrinkling. “But amazing.”
The seal shut his eyes and craned back, giving a wet little huff from its nose.
It seemed to actually be relaxing, and he could see Satoru getting a little
braver too, his hand exploring the animal’s side. His fingers trailed close to
the animal’s flipper, and the seal reflexively slapped at its own side. The fat
jiggled down its whole body, and Satoru gave another laugh—louder,
brighter,giving the animal a couple of sympathetic pats. “Sorry, sorry.”
Yashiro leaned his head in his hand, observing. While he still
hatedhumans—hated how they crawled over his ocean like an infection, scattering
their ships and slighting his seas—Satoru was decidedly different.Everything
about the human was like a siren song: from the light playing in his hair to
the sound of his voice, the way he whispered about the water and immortalized
it in his hand. Everything Satoru was made Yashiro want to clutch at him with
all his infinite limbs and never let go.
The urge to destroy the spawning grounds was still there, of course—grinding
its teeth in his head, a low-boiling hate stewing in his chest. But he did not
want to kill the painter along with it. The idea of losing Satoru made his
tentacles churn under his skin, visibly writhing under his human hide.
No, what he wanted was this: just the two of them and the sea and his sketches,
tucked away from the world. Secret and hidden,where humanity’s hubris wouldn’t
reach. As Yashiro watched Satoru and the seal, he could feel the tendrils of
something forming in his mind.
Humans had fairly simple needs, didn’t they? Somewhere relatively dry to live,
and food and unsalted water to survive. Blankets to form a sleeping nest. Oh,
and everything Satoru would need to sketch and paint, of course.
A slow, wide grin was stretching at his mouth. Why hadn’t he realized it
before? Like a fool, he’d been climbing ashore to seek Satoru out. It would be
so much simpler to take Satoruwith him.Then he could slaughter the spawning
grounds without a care, and keep his human too. Of course, it would take a few
days to get everything in order, but—
“Yashiro?”
He snapped back to the present with a little hum. Satoru wasn’t looking at him,
his face still turned towards the seal resting on the shore—but the joy had
bled out of eyes face, his fingers unmoving against the animal’s skin. “I… I’ll
be leaving tomorrow.”
“What?”
The seals leapt to attention, the song broken. Their lazy bodies were suddenly
surging with adrenaline, and Satoru’s hand recoiled as the animal began to dart
back to the water, its head swivelling as it frantically bounced away. Barking
to each other, they disappeared back under the waves, escaping into the bay.
Satoru looked disappointed, and at any other time Yashiro would careabout that,
but right now—
“You’re leaving?”
Satoru still wouldn’t look at him, staring down at the hands in his lap. “I
couldn’t afford a trip over,” he explained. “But my friend—he’s a fisherman,
and he was sailing here to negotiate with the local merchants. They reached a
deal yesterday, so…”
“He’s taking you back,” Yashiro finished, his words rumbling with a barely-
contained growl. Rage was crashing over his thoughts like a tidal wave, surging
over the banks of rational thought. The humans were going to take him away.Just
imagining Satoru on one of their god-damn ships, surrounded by sailors drunk on
their own ale and pride, pushed by the wind to this “mainland” he’s never
known—
No.
Yashiro hands shot out and clutched at Satoru’s arms—and he reminded himself to
keep his grip soft, careful not to crush his bones. “When do you leave?”
Satoru raised his head and stared at him, his glasses hanging precariously off
the edge of his nose. “First thing in the morning… why?”
“Meet me,” Yashiro said, his eyes hard. “Down by the docks, at the break of
dawn.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, Satoru’s face
softened—his shock dissolving into a sad and subdued smile. “Okay,” he agreed.
One of his hands reached up to rest on Yashiro’s wrist, a warm and comforting
weight. “I’ll be there. Just—don’t keep me waiting, okay?”
Under his human cloak, his true form twisted, itching and resolute. “I won’t.”
 
 
The next morning, the town woke up to a string of thefts. Mothers went to take
sheets off their clotheslines, only to find the wires empty. Weavers found
their stocks plundered, the thick blankets and fine silks stolen away in the
night. Not even the butcher or the grocer were spared: cooked and cured meats,
fruit and vegetables, even the cheeses and cigarettes and wine—all of it, gone.
The only hint of what had been was a thin, wet slime, coating the broken locks.
Not that any of this concerned Yashiro, of course. He walked quickly through
the still-sleepy town, the streets quiet save for his footsteps, clicking
against the cobblestones. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the
horizon, the black sky starting to give way to blue. The world was still cold,
and Yashiro sucked in the heat of tobacco smoke, his eyes narrowed ahead.
Normally, he would pretend to meander—to look the part of a traveller,
wandering and nearly lost—but now he marched with purpose, navigating through
the empty alleyways. The wind kicked up from the waterfront, and he threw
himself against it, making his way to the shore.
The docks were livelier, but just barely. Most of the fishermen had set off
hours ago, their boats chasing after schools of haddock and cod. One or two
straggling ships were just releasing their lines, and Yashiro bit down a growl
as he passed them by.
Only a single person stood still on the docks—and Yashiro’s steps slowed to a
stop.
Satoru was dressed for travel: a thick, dark coat was hanging heavy over his
limbs, and a cap had been set on his head. Two suitcases sat by his ankles,
both their handles stained with flecks of paint. Right now, he was holding his
hands out towards the sea, making a box with his fingers; with one eye closed,
he peered through, committing the scene to memory.
And Yashiro took a moment to revel in the sight as well, watching the human
standing in the pre-dawn glow of morning. Like a balm for the soul, it
immediately soothed something in him; quelled the writhing that had plagued him
for centuries, calming the stormy seas that raged within his skull. Slowly, he
plucked his cigarette from his lips and tossed it aside, giving one last, hot
exhale into the cold air. “Satoru.”
The painter tore his eyes away from the sea, turning away from the wind. His
cheeks and ears were flushed red with cold, but the smile he wore was warm and
fond. His fingers buried themselves into the depths of his coat, the ball of
his throat bobbing nervously. “Yashiro,” he greeted, shifting his weight from
foot to foot, “good morning.”
“Good morning,” he said, eating up the distance between them. It was a good
thing that Satoru had brought his luggage; he wouldn’t need to go back and try
to track it all down. But in just case, Yashiro asked: “Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But before we get to—that—I... I wanted to give you
something.”
His hand wandered to the leather strap strung across his chest. There was
something hanging on his back, long and round—and Satoru shrugged it off,
holding the cylinder tube out to him. Yashiro cocked his head as he took it in
his hands, feeling the well-used leather against his palms. It was
light—hollow?—and there was some kind of lid on one end. Carefully, he tugged
the cover off, and peered inside.
The smell hit him first—familiar, chemical, paint—before he realized what he
was looking at. The canvas inside was delicately rolled, but Yashiro could
recognize the colours there: a million shades of blue, waves catching the
afternoon light.
“Your painting,” he breathed. “Why?”
Satoru gave a small, awkward shuffle, pointedly looking anywhere but Yashiro’s
direction. “Most people don’t like my art, honestly,” he said, his voice quiet.
“But I can tell that you loved it. A lot. And I’d rather see it go to someone
who will appreciate it.”
Something glowing and warm was settling in his chest—he could feel it blooming
like ink in water, spreading and seeping into his bloodstream. He knew what
this was: the thing humans called a gift. It was a show of favour among their
kind, and he could feel a keening trill trying to force its way out of his
throat. He swallowed it down like mud, and with a hoarse voice, said: “I will
treasure it.”
“I know you will.” Satoru was practically beaming, as bright as the sun rising
over the water. The morning wasn’t as dark as it was before, the world a little
less cold. He wanted this moment to stretch longer, but the town would be
waking up soon—hundreds of people, with hundreds of eyes. Time was relentless,
and Yashiro’s hands gripped at the painting tube.
“Satoru,” he said again, smiling pleasantly. “Will you come away with me?”
He watched as Satoru seemed to process the words: his happy ease sliding into
polite confusion, his smile fading a little as he turned the meaning over in
his head. Yashiro was willing to wait the few precious seconds it took to be
patient, but his true form wasn’t as kind; he could already feel it bursting
from beneath his skin, slithering out from his spine beneath his coat. They
meandered down his sleeves, chasing down Satoru’s touch. It would be so quick,
so simple—
Satoru suddenly staggered forward with a surprised grunt, only to be caught by
someone’s arm around his shoulders. Yashiro’s entire body seized, his teeth
snapping together and eyes narrowing, tentacles surging to attention beneath
his clothes. There was a stranger, a man, a threat—his body brawny and strong,
tanned by hours in the sun. He stank of sweat, wind and salt—and Yashiro
already knew what he was, his lips curling back into a sneer. Sailor.
Satoru blinked up at the stranger, adjusting his glasses with a small scowl.
“Kazu?”
The newcomer—Kazu—grinned, tugging Satoru closer against his side. “I was
wondering where you got up to,” he said, leaving his arm hanging off of Satoru.
It took every shred of Yashiro’s self-control not to rip that limb out of its
socket. The sailor turned his attention on him then, holding out his free hand.
“And you must be this Yashiro fellah I’ve heard so much about!”
Yashiro raised an eyebrow, stared at the extended limb, before looking in
Satoru’s direction. “Friend of yours?”
“Yeah,” Satoru said. He motioned to the man at his side, that burly arm thrown
loosely around his neck. “This is the fisherman I mentioned, Kazu. He’s the one
who gave me a ride over on his ship.”
“The Sweet Aya!” Kazu added, pounding at his chest with his unshaken hand.
“Best vessel to ever sail out of Ishikari Port, you know.”
Ah. Yashiro bit back a hiss, his teeth sinking into his human tongue. This one:
he was the sailor who was rippingSatoru away from him, snatching him up like a
fish on a line. His tentacles roiled like boiling water underneath his
disguise, itching to crush every bone, to feel the flesh squish and squeeze
under the force. Even his fingers—stiff, useless little things—were twitching,
so he buried them into his pockets.
“Speaking of which.” Kazu gave Satoru a short shake, and Yashiro could feel his
hackles rising. “We’re just loadin’ up the last of the cargo, and I’m pretty
sure Kenya would kill me if I left you behind.”
I’ll kill you if you don’t.
“Right,” Satoru muttered, his shoulders sinking under an invisible weight. He
gave Kazu a small smile, scratching at his cheek. “Just, uh. Give me a minute?”
Kazu watched him for a second longer, before a wide grin stretched out across
his face. “O-kay,”he said, clapping Satoru once across the back. The force of
it sent the artist stumbling forward a step, his face red and mouth sputtering.
By the time he’d whirled around, Kazu was already walking towards one of the
ships with a hearty laugh. “You’ve got two minutes, Romeo!”
Yashiro blinked. “Romeo?”
Satoru pivoted back around, his hands waving back and forth. “It’s n-nothing!
Never mind!” he… squawked? Could humans squawk? “Just, uh, ignore him.”
Gladly. Standing in front of him, it was all to easy for Yashiro to let the
rest of the world fall away, floating in the void. Just being alone together
somehow made it easier to breathe, like a fish finally being put to water.
Satoru’s cheeks were still a little bit flushed from it all, but he managed to
force his gaze back to Yashiro’s face. “I… I want you to come visit me.”
The kraken blinked. He’d never heard that word before. As he always did when in
doubt, he plastered on a smile, echoing the sound back. “Visit you?”
Satoru’s face burst into another round of red, his fingers flying up to hang in
the empty air. “I mean. If you’re ever near Ishikari—and, only if you want to,
but—you should. Come find me,” he said, swallowing thickly. “I’d… like it. If
you did.”
Oh.This time the smile on Yashiro’s face widened, his lips curling back to show
teeth. Softly, he reached a hand forward, until he felt his cold palm resting
against the heat of Satoru’s cheek. The painter’s eyes widened a little, but he
didn’t pull away; Yashiro took the opportunity to savour the feeling, his false
skin brushing against the human’s heat. “Alright.”
“Al… right?”
“I’ll come find you,” Yashiro explained, simple as that.
“Oh,” he breathed, a smile breaking out across his face. “Okay.”
A voice boomed down from one of the ships, an arm waving from the deck. “Oi,
Satoru!” Kazu called, cupping both of his hands around his mouth. “Time’s up!
We’re pulling up the plank!”
The painter bit his lip for a second, before taking a single step back and out
of Yashiro’s reach. “I have to go,” he said, reaching down and gripping a
suitcase in each hand. His knuckles were white as he clutched the handles, his
shoulders squared. “Take care of that painting for me, okay? I worked hard on
that thing.”
“Of course,” Yashiro said, patting at the case. “I’ll see you soon, Satoru.”
A short laugh burst out of his mouth, and Satoru nodded once. “Right,” he
agreed, stepping closer to the waiting ship. “Until then.”
With a heavy heart, Satoru turned away, tearing himself from Yashiro’s side.
Every step was stilted and forced, as if his body was trying to keep itself
anchored to solid land. Even his suitcases tried to pull him back, their weight
straining against his hands. Still, somehow, his boots hit the plank, the thin
wood creaking under his weight. Without a single glance down at the water,
Satoru climbed the ramp, the waves lapping at the pier below.
Only when his feet landed on the deck of the Sweet Aya did Satoru steal one
last glance back at the docks.
Yashiro Gaku was already gone.
 
 
Three hours later, and Satoru couldn’t remember why he thought getting on a
ship was a good idea.
By all measures, everything was going smoothly: they had a good, strong wind in
their sails, the waters were calm and the sky was a clear, brilliant blue. Most
of the men on deck were going about their business with an ease that only came
from experience. From his not-hiding place, Satoru could spy Kazu, chatting to
the other sailors and humming songs as he worked. Anyone else probably would
even found the scene… pleasant.
Instead, Satoru was huddled between two barrels, trying not to vomit all over
his boots.
In his cabin, he could almost—almost—pretend that he wasn’t surrounded by the
water. A ceiling was a ceiling and walls were walls: as long as he didn’t look
outside, he might as well be on land. But if his concentration slipped for even
a second, the truth would come crashing back in, rushing into his lungs like a
flood. If something happened below, if the ocean somehow came surging through
his porthole window, he’d be trapped: clawing at the ceiling and unable to
reach the surface, sinking down with the ship.
So here he was: sitting on deck in the open air—and acutely aware of the sea,
visible no matter which way he looked. Out of sheer desperation, he’d propped
his sketchbook up onto his knees. Sketching had always been his escape, and now
should be no exception. So Satoru flipped through the worn pages, skipping over
the starfish and seals in search of a blank page.
Actually, the idea of drawing anything to do with the ocean sent nausea
spinning into his stomach. Satoru paused to just breathe,but even then, he
could taste the salt on his tongue.  Shaking his head, he forced himself to
move his nib against the paper, dragging out a stroke of ink. The lines were
messy and uneven, his stiff and shivering hands making the whole thing harder
than it had to be.
But after a few minutes, he kind of got into the flow of it, finding a steady
rhythm. Bit by bit, Satoru sank into the feeling of the paper against his hand,
the smell of the ink, the sight of his sketch forming in front of his eyes.
From memory alone, he carved out the curve of a familiar jaw. The man’s sharp
stare came next, glinting in the light. Other features followed: side-swept
hair, an angular nose, a smile that hinted at nothing yet seemed to know too
much—
Yashiro Gaku smiled up at him from the page, and Satoru couldn’t resist smiling
back.
Yashiro had been kind. Kinder than most people were, at least. Soon, Satoru
would be back in his cramped and dusty studio, surrounded by his unwanted
canvases and failures. But until then, he wanted to hold on to this fulfilled
feeling. Wanted to keep Yashiro’s voice in his ears, speaking as if Satoru’s
talent was an obvious truth. For a few seconds, he closed his eyes, and just
listened to the wind; if he tried hard enough, he could almost pretend he heard
him now.
Come away with me.
A shiver ran through his bones, and Satoru blinked his eyes open. Weird. If he
focused hard enough, it was like he could pick out a tune, riding on the
breeze. It almost had a melody, almost like… a song. Slowly, he could feel his
head swaying as if asleep, his ears trying to chase after the sound. The voice
was so familiar, so soft, so nice…
You did not want to go. You wanted to be taken away.
“Yes,” he whispered, feeling the music pull him to his feet. “Taken… away.”
The ocean has everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you would ever need.
Come here…
“Into the sea,” he finished, stepping forward. Satoru could feel his legs
moving, his body staggering as if not his own. Of course: how had he been so
oblivious, so blind? All those wasted years running away from the waves, when
he should have been throwing himself in instead. That irrational fear had
already evaporated away, his mind as calm as still water. With gentle hands, he
could feel the hymn leading him across the deck, towards the open blue.
His hips bumped against the railing, and he leaned over the edge, peering down.
Two gigantic, glowing eyes stared up at him from the depths.
Come away with me.
Satoru smiled, and let himself fall forward.
There was a moment of blissful weightlessness, like floating in water—before
something grabbed hold of his shirt, and yanked.
The back of his head hit the deck, and pain exploded across his skull. For a
second, everything went blank: his vision blacked out, the song suddenly cut
silent in his ears, every thought ripped to pieces. All he knew was the sharp
ache suddenly spearing into his brain, slicing all of his senses in two—and
someone’s hands, roughly shaking at his shoulders.
Satoru groaned, and cracked an eye open, staring at the silhouette above him.
His glasses had tumbled down his face, and it took a second to recognize the
blurry figure hovering above him. “Ka…zu?”
“Holy fuck,” he replied, his chest heaving. His fingers were still clutching at
the fabric of Satoru’s shirt, keeping the painter pinned to the deck. Not that
Satoru had any illusions about getting up: everything still felt… vague, as if
the world was swimming in his brain. Everything seemed so far away, even his
own self, and he blearily blinked up at the sky.
“What… happened?”
“What hap—you just tried to go overboard!” Kazu shouted, giving Satoru’s shirt
another shake.
Huh, Satoru thought. That didn’t seemlike something he would do. Beyond Kazu’s
shoulder, he could see the ship’s sails, billowing out like clouds. He
remembered sketching, sitting down and mindlessly drawing, and then… what? He
frowned up at the sky, trying to grasp at the memory. Everything just got
muddled, like someone had stirred too many paints together on the palette of
his mind.
Kazu dragged a hand down his face, glaring over his fingers. “I know you’re
trying to face your fear or whatever, but ain’t that going a bit far?” he
asked, still panting with adrenaline. “Jesus fuck, if you fell over—forget
Kenya, Kayo would actually murder me.”
Fell over. That’s right—he could remember falling, and below…
Satoru threw himself up onto his elbows, and stared back towards the ship’s
edge. His thoughts were still a jumble of sight and sound, but a deep dread was
sinking into his stomach like a stone. As he forced himself to his feet, he
heard Kazu shouting his name. Every natural instinct was telling him to get as
far awayfrom the ocean as he could—but he still moved, his legs shaking as they
carried him back to the railing.
Swallowing down the nausea, Satoru peered down at the ocean.
Nothing but the waves stared back.
 
 
He actually did hide in his cabin, after that.
The sun had long since set, but Satoru still lay awake on his cot, staring at
the dark ceiling. A storm had rolled in after he came inside, and it showed no
signs of letting up yet. The wind was howling like a banshee, the bitter rain
throwing itself at his window. The entire ship was being rocked by the storm,
and his room was no exception, rolling back and forth.
With a quiet curse, he pulled the covers up and over his head, as if he could
block out the world and the sea along with it. His sleeping clothes were
sticking to his skin, the fabric damp with cold sweat. There was still an
anxiety buzzing in his blood when he thought about what could have happened,
just how close he was to falling into the waves.
“Jumping in,” he corrected himself, frowning. No matter which way he looked at
it, he really had tried to go overboard. Even if his memories were washed out,
he remembered that falling feeling before Kazu pulled him back. Besides, the
other men on the crew had seen him walking to the railing—Kazu had just been
the one to realize something was wrong.
“But why?” he muttered. Every once in a while, he felt a snippet of something
trying to breach the surface of his memory. An answer was lurking there,
staring up at him from the dark—but then it was gone again, leaving only a
headache in its wake.
Satoru huffed, clutching his pillow against his chest. The last thing he
remembered for sure was pulling out his pen and drawing a—fuck. His head was
pounding at the temples, and he reached up to rub the pain away. His brain just
couldn’t wrap itself around the moment, the whole thing rolling away like the
tide.
But, then again, he didn’t really need to remember on his own, did he? Poking
his head back out from under the blankets, Satoru rolled over to face the night
table. A solitary candle was still there, burning low; the orange glow lit up
his folded glasses, and underneath them, his sketchbook. One of his hands
snaked out to snatch it, before he retreated back under the sheets.
Hidden in his bed, he flipped the cover open to a random point in the middle,
before flipping backwards through the blank pages. It would be the most recent
thing, and he scanned the paper for the slightest hint of ink.
When he found it, he stopped, squinting in the near-darkness. It took a moment
before the lines came together in front of his eyes, and he gave a soft breath,
his head sinking into the mattress. “Yashiro.”
Satoru.
The boat lurched, and Satoru found himself going stock-still underneath the
blanket. He strained his ears, listening; but all he could hear was his own
heartbeat in his ears—and the storm, roaring and raging outside of his window.
Just when he began to think it was just his imagination, there it was again: a
whisper on the wind, humming through his bones.
Satoru...
Humming—like a song. His eyes widened, his entire body lurching up in the bed.
The memories crashed back into his consciousness, his hands clutching at the
sheets. That song—how could he have forgotten it?
Come here, Satoru. Come away with me.
“No,” he whispered, but it was too late. His muscles were already melting
underneath his skin, the fog moving in to blanket his mind. His panic was
sinking down into the trenches of his mind, every thought lulled into something
like sleep. His eyelids were heavy and drooping, his breaths coming slow
between his lips. What had he been so scared of, again? He couldn’t quite
remember, but this melody sounded so soothing, so safe...
You will never have to know pain or fear. Just follow the song.
“Following,” he murmured, humming along to the tune. His legs sluggishly
untangled themselves from the sheets, and he could feel the floorboards beneath
his feet. The world outside of his bed was cold, the hair on his arms standing
on end. Still, he moved sleepily, forcing his way through the room; it was like
trying to walk in water, his clothes pulling at his limbs.
His hand fell on the doorknob, his wrist twisting the mechanism open. As he
pulled, the rusted hinges groaned, yawning like a monster in his ears.
The hall outside his cabin was dark as ink and just as thick, but he stepped
forward without a second thought, a faithful puppet on strings. The boat was
still reeling and rolling with every wave, the floor lurching underneath his
feet. Stumbling, he found his hands crawling along the wall, taking on his
weight and steadying his steps.
The entire ship moaned under the force of the storm, but he could barely hear
it, every sound drowned out by the song.           
The world was cruel to you, but the sea will be kind.
A flash of lightning split the sky, and something nearby crashed. Satoru raised
his heavy head, staring ahead with unfocused eyes. The double-doors that
separated the cabins from the deck had burst open, the wood battering against
the walls. The sea and the rain poured in from the outside, the water landing
against his feet, lapping at his ankles.
It felt like home.
That’s right,the song whispered, beckoning him closer. The ocean will never
hurt you, Satoru.
With a smile, he walked out into the storm.
The wind was harsh, the force of it almost knocking him off his feet. The ship
was at the whims of the waves, the entire deck pitching wildly, gravity itself
thrown with every swell. There was so much water: the sea crashed over the
edges of the railing at every turn, sheets of it clawing at the deck. The rain
was pouring into his eyes, and in the darkness and the downpour, Satoru could
just barely see at all.
But he heard the song, clear as day, so close he could almost touch it.
Another burst of thunder, and Satoru saw him.
A dark figure, cut from a pure black cloth, standing by the ship’s wheel. His
coat billowed out behind him in the wind, but he didn’t seem to care; he stood
with sure feet, conducting the storm, a master taming a raging beast. Satoru
found his body following the movements of those hands, but that wasn’t what
drew him in.
Two eyes were watching his every move, glowing yellow in the dark.
Satoru could feel something tugging at his very core, and he followed it
forward, swaying with every step. The rain had plastered his clothes to his
limbs, the thin fabric sticking to his skin—but that didn’t matter now. Nothing
mattered except sinking into that beautiful sound, his feet moving forward with
short and wobbling steps.
The figure ahead held out a hand to him, inviting him closer.
“Satoru!”
His feet froze against the deck, and the clouds in front of his eyes parted.
Satoru blinked, and for the first time, fell the sudden chill of the wind.
Wrapping his arms around himself, he pivoted around, shivering and wet. Kazu
stared back at him from the doorway, his face pale and eyes wide, standing
stock still and afraid. Satoru opened his mouth to ask what was going on, what
he was scared of, what they were even doing out here—
The answer wrapped itself around his stomach, wet and slippery and strong.
Then, it pulled.
Satoru felt his entire body lurch, the storm spinning in front of his eyes as
everything turned into a blur of black and rain. His could feel himself
yelling, but he didn’t even hear it, his voice swallowed by the squall. The
thing around him—thick and writhing, like pure muscle—tightened around his ribs
as it dragged him across the deck, his spine raking across the floor.
“Let go!”he screamed, his legs kicking wildly. Desperate, Satoru dug his nails
in, trying to pry the thing off of him—only for two more to latch around his
wrists, wrenching his fingers away. Throwing his head, he tried to pull his
hands free, tried to call for help—Kazu, Yashiro, anyone.But the tentacles
still continued to pull, hauling him up to the upper deck.
It only stopped at the wheel, and the figure standing next to it. Satoru felt
himself skid to a sudden halt, his entire body squirming against the bonds.
Turning his head, he only saw someone’s shoes—dark and polished to a
shine—before he felt himself getting pulled again.
“No!” he shouted, kicking at the air as the tentacles peeled him off the deck.
For a second, his toes scrambled at the floor, his skin scraping against the
planks. That quickly fell away as he was lifted higher, his feet swinging
uselessly in mid-air. Satoru could feel his heartbeat in every shred of his
being, could taste panic storming into his lungs like seawater. His eyes
squeezed tightly shut, and he tried to breathe; this was just a nightmare, and
any second now he was going to wake up, wake up—
A thin tentacle slid around his throat, tilting his chin up. “Satoru.”
A shudder rocked through his core, and against his better judgement, he opened
his eyes.
Yashiro smiled at him, his eyes glowing bright. Satoru could feel every
panicked thought crashing to a close, his eyes wide and chest heaving against
the limb holding him. Yashiro was here, on this ship; standing in the middle of
the storm as if it were made for him, his wet hair whipping in the wind like a
god.
And while that was strange, impossible—that wasn’t what scared him.
With wide eyes, Satoru traced the tentacles back to their source.
At least a dozen of them were squirming out of Yashiro’s spine.
And if it weren’t for the one wrapped around his neck, he might have been sick.
He could still feel that one, even now, brushing along his chin and crawling up
to caress at his cheek. Instinctively, Satoru leaned away from it, his entire
body trying to twist away from the feeling. Yashiro’s hand—human-like, but it’s
not, he’s not—reached up to cup the other side of his face, his voice dripping
with affection.
“I promised,” he purred, leaning close, “that I would come find you.”
Satoru stared at him, his body shaking in Yashiro’s grip. None of this made
sense, but it was undeniably real; he tried to pull his hands free, but the
limbs were still there, keeping his hands locked in a vice-grip of flesh. Some
part of him scrambled to remember the Yashiro of the shore: he had been kind,
understanding, always listening—
“Yashiro,” he whispered, swallowing thickly. “You have to let—let me go.”
The not-man stared at him for a moment, those yellow eyes boring into his soul.
The tentacles tightened their grip, locking him in. “Why?” he asked, both of
his hands moving to clutch at Satoru’s face. There was something—desperate and
unhingedthere, the edges of his face turning a slimy shade of black. “The
humans will never appreciate you, Satoru. But I will. I can make you happy.”
His head tilted to the side, his expression blank. “Isn’t that everything you
wanted?”
Yes,he thought. But not like this.
Yashiro’s head suddenly whipped to the side, eyes narrowed—and one of the free
tentacles lashed out, quick as a bullet and just as deadly. There was a
sickening squelch,the splash of something thick splattering against the deck.
Yashiro didn’t even wince as his own viscous blood dripped down, a shining
harpoon jutting out of a thick tentacle.
“Oi, asshole!” Kazu shouted, clutching a second spear in both hands. “He said
to let him go!”
Yashiro stared at him, unimpressed, as he shook the harpoon out. “Hubris.”
“Kazu,” Satoru whispered, right before the tentacle around his neck wrapped
around the lower half of his face. He tried to scream, only to find his voice
stifled by the slimy flesh, feeling it slide over his mouth. His hands tried to
reach up, but his wrists were held fast, still trapped in Yashiro’s hold. The
monster pulled him closer, until he was kicking and writhing against Yashiro’s
side, a human-like arm sliding around his waist.
Kazu planted his feet, dipping down low. “I know what you are,” he spat, eyes
flashing. “Gramps warned me about the kraken. Nobody else believed him, but I
knew you were lurkin’ down there somewhere.”
Satoru’s eyes widened. Kraken?
“Interesting,” Yashiro drawled, the tentacles at his back rising like hackles.
“But you will die all the same.”
Lightning crackled like a starting pistol, and both sides lunged. Kazu charged
forward with a cry, his heavy steps pounding against the deck of his ship.
Yashiro’s human body didn’t move a muscle, but the tentacles dove forward,
snapping like whips of black water. They cut through the air, and Satoru
couldn’t do anything but watch as they crashed into Kazu, a tsunami of
supernatural force.
But Kazu was practically born with a spear in his hands, and before any of them
knew it, two of Yashiro’s tentacles were decapitated and writhing on the
planks. At least one more had a hole that wasn’t there before, once again
baptizing the Sweet Ayain kraken blood. Kazu didn’t waste time, already pushing
forward again, slashing wildly and refusing to give up an inch.
Somewhere above his head, Satoru could hear an angry, unhuman clicking coming
from behind Yashiro’s grit teeth.
“Enough,” he said, one of his tentacles snapping around the sailor’s spear.
Kazu’s feet scrambled for purchase as he tried to keep hold, both his hands
slick with rain. It was all too easy for another one of Yashiro’s limbs to lash
forward, and—
Satoru heard a wet crunchas a tentacle stabbed at Kazu’s head. 
Kazu yelled, crumpling to his knees like wet paper. His weapon was forgotten as
both of his heads flew to his eye, dark blood pouring over his fingers. And
Satoru screamed too, as much as the tentacle on his mouth would allow him to.
His limbs strained against the kraken’s hold, desperate to reach forward
because Kazu was hurt,and—and—
“Hubris,” Yashiro repeated, his tentacle winding around Kazu’s spear. The limb
curled, and Satoru watched as the harpoon’s end was pointed down, hanging like
a guillotine above Kazu’s back. The sailor continued to clutch at his eye,
unaware—and Satoru could do nothing but watch, the storm raging like white
noise in his ears.
Yashiro was going to kill him.
This needed to stop.
He turned his gaze in the kraken’s direction, and with as much bite as he could
muster, he sank his teeth into the tentacle around his mouth. The
taste—something like rotting seaweed and fish—made him want to gag, but it got
Yashiro’s attention: the monster looked back down at his hostage, his
expression melting into something soft and fond.
The gag over his mouth slowly slithered away, leaving a thin film of slime.
Satoru sputtered, gulping down air, shivering in the cold. “Yashiro,” he said,
his voice tight. “You—you don’t need to do this.”
Something flashed in the kraken’s eyes, sharp as a knife. “He tried to take you
away from me.”
“And you have me now, don’t you?” he asked, tugging at his bound wrists. He was
trapped in mid-air like a butterfly pinned against a corkboard, feeling the
tentacles sliding over his skin. “You got what you came for. You can
just—leave.”
Yashiro stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes darting across Satoru’s face,
calculating. Two hands, clammy and cold, reached up to cup at his cheeks;
Yashiro’s fingers tangled in his bangs, pushing them back and away from his
face. The touch was gentle, and Satoru bit back the urge to recoil, the
tentacles still squirming against his stomach and wrists. Instead, he forced
himself to meet Yashiro’s gaze, his legs hanging limply off the ground.
Through the wind, he could still just barely hear Kazu’s pain, grunted through
grit teeth.
Yashiro’s face crawled closer to his own, until all Satoru could see was the
yellow of his eyes. “You’ll come away with me.”
It wasn’t a question, this time. Dread sank like an anchor through Satoru’s
gut, the chain wrapping around his throat and dragging him down. Of course, he
knew that’s what would happen—but now it was real,a contract signed with a
price paid. Satoru swallowed thickly and tried to nod anyway, but he didn’t
even have the will to look back up. His head hung forward, the rain rushing
down his face. “Okay.”
A trilling noise rolled out of Yashiro’s chest, and the roaming tentacles moved
back in, curling and curving in around the two of them like a cage. Satoru
could feel Yashiro’s thumbs softly stroking at his cheeks—and then the humming
started back up again. The song slipped into his bones, and this time, Satoru
didn’t fight it. He simply let himself melt, his body sagging against the
kraken’s own with a soft sigh.
One of Yashiro’s hands settled on the back of his head, his fingers running
through his wet hair. It would be so nice to lose himself in the feeling,
but—someone, somewhere, was shouting. The sound was muddled, like he was
hearing it from underwater. But out of the corner of the haze, Satoru could
just barely see Kazu, trying to stumble to his feet. There was a single eye
that stared out from the blood on his face, but it was narrowed and glaring,
spitting curses Satoru couldn’t hear.
Yashiro gave the sailor one last stare through the cage, before his body burst
apart.
The chest Satoru was leaning against crumbled into a mess of wriggling and
flesh, tentacles surging out where skin and bone had been. Satoru could feel
panic building underneath his own skin, but it couldn’t fight the song—all he
could do was hang there, limp, as the person he thought he could love twisted
into a monster he didn’t recognize.
As the kraken unfurled, the ship became farther and farther away from his feet,
his body lifted high. His head rolled sleepily to the side, and Satoru stared
into a single, massive eye.
The monster—Yashiro—watched him, its thin pupil dilating wide. The
kraken—unfettered, uncontained—spread out beneath him, a sea of tentacles
scattered across the ocean below. Those arms must have sunk hundreds of ships,
killed thousands of men—but the limbs that clutched at him now were gentle,
cradling him high above the waves. Singing him a soft song, hushing his fears
into the back of his mind.
“The ocean will never hurt you,” it crooned, and for once, Satoru just might
have believed it.
As they sank down together—as the ocean crept closer and closer, the saltwater
nipping at his fingertips—Satoru closed his eyes, unafraid.
With his remaining eye, Kazu watched from the deck as they disappeared into the
sea.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Shout out to the anon who sent me the song My_Place_in_the_Sea, since
     it single-handedly inspired this whole thing!
     Though it took longer than I thought, haha... it was originally
     supposed to be posted on Halloween!! Whoops. And it got pretty
     liberal with the definition of a "siren" but I thought Yashiro made a
     pretty killer kraken! Writing his perspective was a fun challenge,
     since he really only knows things in the context of what it's like in
     the ocean.
     I know at least one person is waiting for tentacle smut from this AU,
     so I'm hoping to bang that out eventually. After I nap for an
     eternity. (シ_ _)シ
***** Yashisato - kraken AU + tentacles *****
Chapter Notes
     This is a follow to the previous chapter! Please make sure you read
     the last prompt before this one.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Awareness came back to him in waves. The world was lapping at his senses, but
his brain still felt waterlogged, his thoughts heavy and flooded with sleep.
With a small groan, Satoru squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into the
sheets. It wouldn’t hurt to sleep for just a few more minutes. Stifling a yawn,
he grasped at the scraps of his dream, trying to pick up the thread where it
left off.
It had been so nice. Satoru had felt so blissfully content, as if every fibre
of his being was soaking in a perfectly hot bath. Even now, he could feel
himself melting, lulled by the feeling; losing himself in someone’s hold, their
voice whispering into his ear. It hummed a promise of safety and worship, a
soft song about… about the…
Satoru’s eyes shot open.
Panic exploded like a scream in his skull. His body lurched up, blankets
pooling in his lap. The storm, the kraken, Yashiro:Satoru could remember it
all, could still feel the ocean overtaking his limbs. Fear, cold as the sea and
just as deep, swallowed his lungs whole—and Satoru pressed a hand to his mouth,
heat pooling in his eyes.
He’d gone under. Yashiro had dragged him below and he hadn’t been able to do
anything, couldn’t fight, couldn’t even say a word. He could have—he almost
had—
A choked, strangled noise squeezed out of his throat. There was no water there
now, but it still felt like he was drowning: his body just wouldn’t breathe,and
he curled forward, desperately trying to inhale oxygen. Every breath felt like
nails being raked through his lungs, and he squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in
air between his fingers.
He needed to calm down. He needed to calm down and get out of here.
Wherever herewas.
Satoru ignored his still-raging heart, and slowly lifted his head. It took a
moment for him to recognize the space for what it was: not a cage, or a cave or
the sea, but… just a room. The wooden walls were old and warped, the
floorboards crooked and askew—but it was a room, somewhere solid and dry.
Satoru could feel his pulse slowing, relief flushing through his veins.
But something was still off about it. Judging by the size and the style, this
would have to be a—a captain’s cabin, maybe? But the Sweet Ayawas a simple
boat, built for hauling fish and surviving storms. Kazu was the captain in name
only: he slept with the rest of his crew down below, all of them hanging from
hammocks in the hold. Satoru had taken the only private cabin on the ship, and
it was barely bigger than a closet.
So where the hell was he? His brow furrowed, and Satoru looked around, the
gears in his mind turning. Bits of furniture were scattered across the room; a
half-broken desk was sitting forgotten on its side, chairs with missing legs
thrown every which way. There were papers abandoned all over the floor, the ink
seeped across the pages. And then there was the smell: musty and thick with
mildew. He wrinkled his nose.
Satoru had lived close enough to the ocean to know when somewhere had been
flooded. But ships, by definition, don’t flood: they sink, and the thought
alone made him want to be sick.
But he hadn’t been on a sinking ship. He’d gone with Yashiro precisely to
avoidthat, actually. He pulled the blankets up to his nose, and inhaled. They
smelled fresh and new, still soft from a recent washing. The bed wasn’t
waterlogged like everything else, then. Satoru frowned, and gently pushed down
on the mattress—only to find nothing but the cold, hard floor beneath him.
Not even a bed, then. Someone—something?—had just dumped everything in a pile
and tucked him into it, hiding him in a nest of fabric and sheets. Satoru
kicked the blankets off, shivering at the sudden cold. He was still in his
sleeping clothes, the fabric pitifully thin and damp—but at least he was
dressed in his own things. He would take these little victories where he could.
Steeling his nerves, Satoru pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself on
unsteady legs. He expected to feel the ocean rolling underneath his feet, but
the floor was—stable. As if he weren’t on the water at all. There was a wall of
windows on the other side of the room, and Satoru slowly made his way towards
it, toeing his way through the splintered furniture.
He pressed his palm to the cool glass, and felt his heart sink.
It had been premature to think he wasn’t in a cave.
The ship was sitting in a great, gaping chamber. Stone walls rose up around,
reaching high above the masts—but was sunlight streaming down from above, and
Satoru pressed his cheek against the window to see. Where a roof should have
been, there was a circle of pure blue sky; it lit up the water that filled most
of the cave, shining deep blue and clear.
But the ship itself was beached on an outcropping of sand and stone. Satoru
felt himself relaxing a little at that. He wasn’t in the water, and that alone
kept his breathing calm, hot exhales fogging against the glass. With his
fingertips, he wiped it away. At any other time, under any other
circumstance—he would have even called this view beautiful.
“Do you like it?”
Satoru spun around, his back crashing against the window.
He didn’t need his glasses to see who was standing in the doorway. Satoru
swallowed down his heart, his spine pressing flush against the glass. The
blurry figure looked just like the Yashiro he knew: standing on two legs with a
smile, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. Everything about him was so
close to the person that Satoru had come to call friend, but—
But it wasn’t. Satoru pressed his lips together, his lungs shivering in his
chest. It was as if the monster had shed everything but the bare minimum of
humanity: tentacles were hanging from his back, writhing and feeling at the
air, squirming in every direction. Some of his skin didn’t even look human
anymore: a slimy black was creeping over the edges of his face, like someone
had dabbed ink along the margins and smeared it over his pores.
But none of that compared to his eyes, glowing dim yellow in the dark.
“You said you liked the cove,” he said, taking a few leisurely steps into the
room. “I know it is not the same, but I hope it pleases you.”
Coming from him now, in this situation, the words felt—slimy and hollow. They
were still on opposites ends of the cabin, but it still felt too close. With
nowhere else to go, Satoru felt himself moving to the side, tracing the windows
with his palms. Sweat was trickling down his neck, seeping into his collar,
beating like a war drum in his blood.
Yashiro stopped mid-step, tentacles rising like hackles behind his back.
“Satoru?”
Think. Satoru didn’t know what the right answer was, didn’t even know what
Yashiro wantedfrom him. But he needed to keep his head above the water, needed
to say something, but his mouth refused to form the words. “I—I’m just—”
His heel snagged on some wood, and he felt himself fall.
Satoru braced for impact, but it didn’t come: something slid around his waist
instead. The feeling was familiar in the worst possible way, and Satoru
immediately tried to grab on to anything— a beam, a chair, a weapon.But that
thick thing was already plucking him off the ground, moving him through the
air—and Satoru realized he was being reeled in by the tentacle coiled around
his stomach, like a fish being pulled in for gutting.
His insides churned at thought, and he tried to wriggle away, his hands pushing
down at the slime. “Let—let me go!”
But Yashiro just pulled him closer, until Satoru was held in the air in front
of him, uselessly squirming in his grip. His narrowed eyes darted frantically
across the human’s form, his voice growling and low. A tentacle snaked around
his ankle, and Satoru yelped as his leg was yanked forward and turned around in
the kraken’s grip. Yashiro’s face was cold, seething with a frigid fury as he
inspected Satoru’s foot. “Are you hurt?”
Satoru shivered, and tried to pull his ankle back. “D-don’t—”
A hiss cut through the air, and Satoru flinched, his muscles tight. Out of the
corner of his eye, another tentacle lashed out like a viper, slicing across the
room. Something crashed behind his back, wood cracking and splinters skidding
across the floor below. Satoru felt the wet limbs curling tighter around him,
but he didn’t dare move again. Not when the crunch of Kazu’s eye caving was
fresh in his ears.
Instead, he just breathed deeply through his nose, staring down at his captured
foot as Yashiro tore something apart.
Eventually, the kraken seemed satisfied, giving a final round of irritated
clicks. Slowly, Satoru’s ankle was let loose, the human gently set back down
onto his feet. The tentacle around his stomach stayed, though—firmly twisted
around his hips like a leash, steadying his awkward legs. As much as Satoru
liked not being held in mid-air, the floor underneath his soles was cold—he
shifted from foot to foot, unable resist another short shudder as the chill
worked its way up his bones.
There was a soft, knowing hum from Yashiro’s throat—before Satoru felt
something being draped over his shoulders. He blinked and looked up, watching
as Yashiro delicately wrapped him up in his coat. The monster pulled the thick
wool around him, the heavy fabric sinking onto his limbs. Every movement was
slow and deliberate, and Satoru could feel those fingers—black, not
human—gently adjusting the collar, slimy skin sliding against his neck. “You
are cold.”
With nothing else to say, Satoru tugged the front of it closed, like a
protective shell. “Uh… thank you?”
A smile slithered across Yashiro’s face, a strange chirping noise popping out
of his throat. “It was my pleasure,” he said, one of his hands moving to cup
his face. Satoru tried to keep his nose from curling, forced himself not to
pull away as the clammy touch settled against his cheek. A thumb began to
slowly stroke back and forth, leaving a thin, slippery film in its wake.
“I had hoped to take you with your luggage, so you would have something to
wear,” he admitted, irritation seeping into his tone. The limb around Satoru’s
waist gripped him tighter for just a moment, before relaxing again with a small
sigh. “But you are here now. That is all that matters.”
Satoru could feel the tip of another tentacle, trailing up the back of his
leg—and he bit down the shout that tried to burst out of his mouth. “W-where
is… ‘here’?”  
Yashiro’s entire body seemed to bloom outwards, the tentacles arching in
pleasant surprise. There was a glint in the monster’s eye, and he reached
forward, looping his arm around Satoru’s own. “Allow me to show you,” he said,
pressing the human’s hand into the crook of his elbow.
Satoru could feel fear beating in time with his heartbeat, barely restrained
under his bones. His feet tried to step away, tried to create distance—but the
tentacle on his hips only pulled him closer, pressing him against Yashiro’s
side. Satoru squeezed his eyes shut as something slithered around his
shoulders, holding him tight. A long, wet limb nudged him from behind his back,
insistently pushing him forward.
“This way,” Yashiro purred, whisking Satoru with him as he strode out of the
room.

This ship was probably luxurious, once. It was larger than any vessel Satoru
had ever seen, let alone been on—though, admittedly, it was a short list.
Still, he tried to focus on every detail while he could: the intricately carved
wood, the gold detailing, the fine finishes—his eyes lingering everywhere but
the creature at his side.
Not that Yashiro seemed to notice. He moved through the empty ship like a lord
perusing his castle, and it was all Satoru could do to keep his head on his
shoulders. He just needed to think in terms of surviving each moment as it
came, taking it one step at a time. Which was surprisingly easy when Yashiro
was effectively carrying him: his toes were just barely sliding along the
floor, his entire body dragged along by Yashiro’s unnatural limbs.
A small tendril toyed with the ends of his hair, coiling in the strands—and
Satoru arched away from it, staring pointedly ahead. “Where—where are we
going?”
Yashiro’s fingers drummed against Satoru’s knuckles. “Outside.”
That didn’t seem right. Satoru frowned as Yashiro whisked him down an
impressive set of stairs, his feet completely clearing the steps. As far as he
knew, you went up to the deck if you wanted to get off a ship. But Yashiro
clearly wasn’t going to elaborate, so Satoru bit at his cheek, his eyes darting
around the hall. “Where did this ship come from?”
The kraken turned his stare to Satoru, his eyes cutting deep. “Does it please
you?”
“I—” He felt one of the tentacles writhing against his hip, restless. Satoru
released a slow breath, steadying his words. “It’s very nice.”
A thrilled trill bubbled out of Yashiro’s throat, his smile just barely
widening—and the tentacle settled down again, affectionately sliding below the
hem of Satoru’s shirt. “This was one of the largest ships I sank,” he said,
smirking at the memory. “I knew humans could survive on a boat, so I thought it
would be a suitable dwelling for you.”
A tentacle swiped across one of the walls as they passed, and Yashiro brought
it to his face, as if inspecting for dust. “When I pulled it back out of the
sea, some of the dead humans were still inside,” he added, giving a short,
irritated click, “but I cleaned them out, of course.”
“Of… of course,” Satoru echoed, quiet and numb. He stared down at his bare
feet, the realization crashing into the shores of his mind. He knew that
Yashiro was the kraken, had seen that wicked transformation for himself—but
he’d never grasped the implications of it, lurking there under the surface.
Yashiro must be centuries old, if not more; had probably sunk more ships than
Satoru could count, dragging them down into the belly of the ocean.
Yashiro had killed people. Hundreds—no, thousandsof them; doomed to watery
graves by his hand, little more than sacks of bloated flesh and bones on the
waves. The Yashiro of the shore was a monster in the sea, surging up and
crushing innocent men to a pulp in his teeth.
And now, Satoru was trapped in here with him. Slowly, he dared to stare up at
Yashiro, sweat creeping down his neck. He could feel at least four of those
deadly limbs on him right now, gripping him close; holding without hurting, but
not so loose that he could actually escape. Soft enough to be comfortable,
while keeping him firmly shackled down.
“Here we are.” Yashiro’s steps stopped, the hardwood floors groaning under his
feet. The tendrils slithered off Satoru’s limbs, and the painter stumbled,
readjusting to his own weight. The monster moved a few steps away, feigning
disinterest—but his eyes were still watching, furiously studying his captive’s
face.
Satoru tugged the coat closer around his frame, suspicion curdling in his gut.
Slowly, he turned on his heel and looked around. They were down in the cargo
hold. Cracked barrels and crates were still scattered in the corners of the
room, dates and sigils stamped onto their sides. But Satoru didn’t pay
attention to them now, his eyes darting to the hull of the ship.
Or, what was left of it. Something—he looked over at Yashiro—had puncheda hole
through the wood, a gaping hole sitting where a chunk of the boat should have
been. With careful steps, Satoru walked towards the opening, the wooden planks
turning to soft sand under his toes. Breaching the threshold, Satoru could feel
the sunlight from above beating down on his skin, hot and warm.
The ship was half-buried on a makeshift beach. It sat on a little islet in the
middle of the cave, surrounded by water on all sides; the pool was deathly
still, like a pane of glass. Somewhere far above, birds cut across the sky,
their tweeting calls echoing against the cavern’s wall. Satoru squinted up at
their shadows, and watched as they disappeared.
Behind him, he could hear the tell-tale crunching of boots on the sand.
“Yashiro. Where are we?”
The answer came, as simple as anything in the world. “Home.”
Satoru released a soft breath, his shoulders sagging like wet paper. When he
half-turned around, his voice was steadier than he imagined it to be, firm and
resolute. “No.”
Yashiro watched him, his face unchanging. “No?”
“I—I have a home.” Satoru turned to face him fully, uselessly holding up his
empty hands, as if they could capture the distance between them. “In Ishikari.
That’s where my studio is, and my mom, and all of my friends. That is home,
and—and people are waiting for me there.” Satoru let his arms fall back to his
sides, heavy and limp. “I can’t stay here, Yashiro. I need to go back.”
The kraken’s eyes narrowed, his tentacles twitching. “Why?”
Before Satoru could even think of opening his mouth, Yashiro was there. He
surged forward like a tempest: his face inches away from the painter’s own,
slippery hands clutching at either side of his face. Dull nails were pressing
against his cheeks, leaving indents in his skin. A pair of glowing eyes stared
deep into his soul, wild and untamed. “Why is that ‘home’?”
Oh, fuck, damn it—Satoru could feel that familiar panic taking over everything,
every breath sitting strangled in his throat. His first instinct was to try to
bat Yashiro away, but thick tentacles were already winding their way around his
wrists, twisting them back. Satoru could feel each of Yashiro’s breaths as he
spoke, the musty smell of seaweed overtaking his lungs.
“Your mother never visits. Your ‘friends’ do not realize your worth,” Yashiro
hissed, his eyes unblinking, pupils dilating until all Satoru could see was
black. “They trample over you and do not care. They cannot care for anything
but themselves.” A low growl was snaking out of his teeth, rolling under every
word. “They do not see you like I do. Do not understand you as I do. So why are
they‘home’?”
“Stop it!” he snapped. The grip around his arms was tight, thick flesh twisting
around his bones; Satoru planted his heels in the sand and tried to scramble
away, his breaths coming shallow and quick. The hands on his face were slick
and slimy and cold, and he threw his head, trying to get them off of him—but
Yashiro pulled his face forward again, forcing them to meet eyes.
“Satoru.”
There was something about the way Yashiro crooned his name that made Satoru’s
body freeze. “No.”
But the song had already begun, and Satoru frantically shook his head back and
forth, trying to shake it out before the melody took root. But he could feel
it, slithering like a tendril into his ears. The fight was bleeding out of his
thrashing limbs, his legs buckling underneath him; even his head felt too heavy
to hold up, his skull rolling forward into the kraken’s hands.
Yashiro hummed affectionately, pressing his forehead softly against Satoru’s
own. “This is home, now.”
Satoru blinked up at him, his brain sluggish and slow. That was wrong, this
wasn’t… wasn’t…
The kraken watched him for a moment, considering—then something lit up in his
eyes, his chest rumbling. “Of course,” he murmured, his voice affectionate and
soft. “I understand, now. You cannot paint or draw without your tools, can you?
No wonder you are disappointed.” Yashiro leaned his chin on top of Satoru’s
hair, heaving a soft sigh. “Do not worry. I will get some for you soon.”
Something, long and thick, was sliding against the back of his knees. The
joints bent like butter, and Satoru could feel the tentacle lifting his feet
away from the sand; the wet flesh around his arms slid away to cushion his back
and his shoulders, cradling him. The next thing he knew, Satoru was staring up
at the blue sky, his cheek pressing against Yashiro’s shoulder as he was
carried.
“And then,” Yashiro said, a hand tangling in his hair, “this will be your
home.”

Satoru hated that Yashiro was right.
Well, partially. This wasn’t home: that was still somewhere on the other side
of a horizon he couldn’t see. But just having a pen in his hand soothed some of
the ache in his chest. It was familiar territory, solid ground when everything
else in his head was a raging sea—and Satoru furiously buried himself in the
new sketchbook he’d been given, scribbling like a mad man on the beach.
First: everything he needed to remember about Ishikari. He drew what he
remembered of Kayo’s face, Kenya’s eyes, his mother’s smile; he wracked his
brain for details while they were still fresh, before time had the chance to
snatch it all away. Satoru spent the first day with only the ink and paper for
company, trying to ignore the shadow watching him from under the water.
He let out a soft sigh, and flipped through the completed pages with stained
fingers. He felt better knowing that they were on paper, the memories given
form into something he could see with his own eyes. He didn’t know how long it
would take to get back there—because he wasgoing to get back, one day—but these
would hopefully last him until then.
The question was what to do in the meantime. Satoru tapped the pen against his
chin, thinking. The obvious next step would be thinking about escape, but there
were too many things he just didn’t know. His little patch of land wasn’t big:
just a few metres of beach in every direction, and nothing but water on all
sides. More worrisome, though, were the lack of exits: there was no opening in
the cave that he could see, except up.
But there was still a steady supply of food in the galley, and Yashiro must
have brought his sketchbook and pens in from somewhere.So Satoru sat on one of
the few boulders on the beach, watching as Yashiro stepped out of the pool,
water dripping off his many limbs. One of the tentacles was dragging a chest
behind him, leaving tracks in the sand.
“Yashiro,” he asked, as nonchalant as he could manage, “how do you get in and
out of here, anyway?”
The not-man pushed the wet hair back, slicking his bangs out of his face—and
Satoru felt his face blushing, the traitor. The kraken didn’t seem to
particularly notice, but a tendril slid out to brush against Satoru’s cheek all
the same. “The cavern continues below,” he said simply. “It leads to the sea.”
“Oh,” he muttered, dropping his eyes as he ground his teeth. Even if he
couldswim, if the exit was large enough to fit Yashiro in his true form, would
he even make it out before he drowned? Just the thought of that pitch-black
water sent his heart into a panic, the organ skipping a dozen beats. Before the
unease could fully set in, he turned back to his sketchbook, flipping to a
blank page.
One: The only way in and out is under water.
Satoru snapped the book shut, eying Yashiro’s retreating back. It wasn’t
much—but it was a start.

Time ticked by slowly, but his sketchbook was filling up fast. Satoru’s
observations were quickly crowding the pages—not just in writing, but with
little sketches as well. What he struggled to explain in words, he found he
could easily convey in pictures. Sometimes he drew something only to think of a
note after, the words crammed into the margins in a messily drawn script.
Two: This is an island of some kind. I can see roots coming in from the
ceiling, and there are birds.Sometimes they flew down to join him on the beach,
wading into the warm water. Satoru followed the curve of their wings with his
pen, tracing each feather onto the page. When Yashiro wasn’t close-by, he could
even feed them, their little feet happily hopping onto his fingers for a taste
of fresh bread.
But that bread had to come from somewhere, so—
Three: A port or town has to be close-by.Yashiro disappeared every couple of
days, sinking under the water and not emerging for hours. But he always came
back, and every time he dragged another chest ashore. The cases were always
stuffed to the brim with fresh fruits and breads and cured meats—along with
whatever art supplies it looked like he could get his hands on.
Judging by the coins haphazardly tossed into the bottom, at least Yashiro was
actually buying things instead of—well. Satoru toyed with one of the gold
coins, spinning it in his fingers. The design was of a monarch long-dead, and
rust was eating away at the edges. It might have been new when it was plunged
into the sea, but now it was practically an antique.
Satoru suspected that it was worth far more than Yashiro getting for it, but
somehow, he didn’t think the kraken would particularly care.
Something shifted behind him, and Satoru could feel Yashiro settling behind
him, his human-like arms slithering around the painter’s waist. Gently—but
forcefully—Satoru felt himself being pulled back, until his spine was flush
with the monster’s chest. Yashiro gave a satisfied sigh into the crook of the
human’s neck, nuzzling into Satoru’s shiver.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” he murmured, “so I just got a bit of
everything. I hope you like it.”
Satoru blinked, his body going rigid under the touch. “It’s… it’s good. Thank
you.”
It took Satoru a few days to realize why those words had stuck with him. An
entire morning was spent furiously pacing back and forth across the room
Yashiro had deemed was his, trying to pull the memory out of his brain. It was
only when he was languidly drawing a seal from memory that it struck him, his
mouth going slack.
Back then at the cove, on that rocky shoreline, a picnic basket between them,
Satoru had told him he got…
“A little bit of everything.” Satoru leaned back against the wall, his pen
hanging limp from his fingers. How hadn’t he noticed it before? So many of
Yashiro’s words were—clunky, and unnatural, as if they were… rehearsed.
Satoru slowly put his nib to the page underneath the seal’s belly. Four:
Yashiro only knows how to mimic humanity. It does not come naturally to him.
Which explained so much: not grasping why Satoru would miss his friends and
family, his obvious distaste for humans on the whole… Yashiro had called
himself a solitary creature before, but Satoru may have underestimated just how
true those words had been.
One night, and under the glow of lantern light, he asked: “Are there any more
like you? Krakens or sirens, or whatever?”
Yashiro sat in one of the uncrushed chairs he’d managed to find, a cigarette
hanging off his lips. One of the thinner tendrils lifted it from his lips, and
he exhaled smoke, like a sea-dragon spitting out steam. “No,” he said, his
glowing eyes flickering in the dim light. “Just like there is only one of you,
Satoru.”
He hummed, and turned back to his book. Five: Yashiro is the only kraken he
knows of.
No wonder Yashiro didn’t understand society. He must have been completely
isolated since he was born. Spending centuries forsaken by the sea, knowing he
was the only one of his kind—floating completely and eternally alone in that
void… Satoru couldn’t imagine that kind of hell. Frankly, a part of him was
surprised Yashiro wasn’t more insane than he was, considering.
For a brief moment, he stared at the kraken in a new light. More than anything,
Yashiro seemed content to just soak in Satoru’s presence, simply existing in
each other’s orbit. Satoru dropped his eyes back to the page, and added in
slow, tentative strokes:
Six: I think he might be lonely.

With a rusted nail, Satoru carved another line into the rotted wood. A tally
wasn’t the best way to keep track of the days, but he didn’t want to waste
precious pages in his sketchbook. Luckily, Yashiro didn’t seem to mind Satoru
defacing the ship, watching with something akin to curiosity.
Which he… did a lot of, honestly. More than once, as he aimlessly roamed the
halls, Satoru looked over his shoulder just in time to see a tentacle retreat
around the corner. When he bathed in the shallows, he would catch a glimpse of
the monster watching him from afar—before Yashiro ducked quickly under the
surface, like a child caught peeking.
“Pervert,” Satoru muttered, pulling his shirt back over his head. But some part
of him couldn’t help but find it… oddly endearing. In a disturbing, sinister
kind of way.
But he still wasn’t used to the constant—touching.Not that it surprised him:
even on the shore, Yashiro never seemed to understand personal space. Every
time they met back then, Yashiro would get a little too close, his hands
lingering a little too long—but Satoru had looked forward to each and every
date, all the same. He buried his head into his hands with an embarrassed
groan.
In hindsight, it should have been obvious. Would have been, if he hadn’t been
so—easily distracted.
Now, it was impossible to ignore. When he was sketching, he would often sense
something, secretly sidling up behind his back. The tentacles moved slowly, as
if trying not to disturb—silently and softly winding around his body, slipping
around his stomach and thighs. More than once, Satoru hadn’t even noticed until
he was done, and Yashiro was insistently looking over his shoulder to see his
work.
Even at night, Satoru would wake up to tentacles slithering between the sheets,
seeking out his skin in the dark. More often that not, when morning came, it
found Yashiro in his bed: his body pressed flush with Satoru’s back, his human
(and inhuman) limbs coiled tightly around him. Never sleeping—Seven: Yashiro
doesn’t sleep—but just basking in Satoru’s breathing, humming songs into his
hair.
Which is why, when Satoru woke from an early afternoon nap to find Yashiro
hovering on top of him, he wasn’t … surprised.Mildly concerned, maybe. He
stifled a yawn, his nose wrinkling as he blearily blinked up at yellow eyes.
“Yashiro?”
“Satoru,” he echoed, a tendril moving to brush the hair out from in front of
his eyes. The thing was colder, clammier than usual—and Satoru belatedly
realized that Yashiro was still wet, his clothes dripping with sea water.
Satoru frowned, and he pushed himself onto his elbows, the sheets pooling
around his hips.
“Is something wrong?”
The answer came as a hand pressed to his chest, pushing him back against the
blankets. Yashiro followed him down, refusing to give up an inch of distance,
his grip unyielding. Satoru could feel the water soaking through his shirt,
cold wet meeting hot skin. Under Yashiro’s palm, his heart began to beat
faster, fear and adrenaline flushing through his veins. “Yashiro…?”
A chirping noise rumbled out of his throat, his forehead pressing
affectionately against the human’s own. “Satoru,” he repeated, practically
purring, “become one with me.”
Every thought in his head promptly went out the window. Satoru froze under that
glowing gaze, gaping up at the monster straddling his hips. “Wh—what?”
“Become one with me.” A pleasant smile was plastered across the monster’s lips,
and he brought up one hand to brush his knuckles across Satoru’s face. “That is
what humans do with each other, when they are in love.”
“I—what?” Satoru could feel his brain still trying to catch up to Yashiro’s
words, trying to find any meaning beyond the increasingly obvious. Which was
hard to do when Yashiro’s tentacles were already tugging away the sheets,
throwing them across the room. He tried to strain against the hand holding him
down, his back arching up and off the bedding, but it wouldn’t budge. His hands
flew to Yashiro’s wrist, gently trying to nudge it off. “Yashiro, that’s not—we
can’t.”
“We can.” His head ducked down to Satoru’s ear, cold lips brushing against the
arch. Satoru dug his nails into Yashiro’s wrist as he tried to pry it
loose—until two tentacles wrapped themselves around his arms, slithering down
towards his wrists like vines. Slowly—but firmly—his hands were wrenched away,
and Satoru could feel them being pinned to the blankets beside his head.
Something wet licked at his ear, and it shocked his system into panic. Satoru
tried to jerk his arms free, but they might as well have been locked in iron:
for all their slippery sliminess, he couldn’t so much as budge in the
tentacles’ grip. His legs were kicking wildly below, but Yashiro barely seemed
to notice, his tongue trailing along Satoru’s jaw.
Oh, god, this was really happening. Satoru stared up at the ceiling, a shudder
echoing down his bones. “Yashiro, s-stop. Stop.”
The kraken’s lips did stop, at least—but that was only a token comfort when
something was moving against his chest. Satoru lifted his head and stared down
at the two, thin little appendages dutifully undoing his shirt buttons, one by
one. The last one hadn’t even been shaken loose when he felt something firm and
wet slidingunder the fabric, crawling up his stomach.
“Don’t!” Satoru threw his head back against the blankets, desperately trying to
squirm away from the touch. One tentacle quickly turned into two, three,
more—and he could feel every single one, pressing cold and clammy caresses onto
his skin. Satoru grimaced as one managed to wriggle its way underneath him,
happily slithering its way up his spine.
Yashiro’s limbs left a thick film of sludge on his skin, the rubbery skin
twisting tight around his body—and Satoru hated it, trying to squirm away from
the feeling. Each tentacle poked and prodded him with an almost clinical
curiosity, as if he were something to be opened up and taken apart—but the
touches were still gentle, handling him with care.
Two hands slowly grasped at his face, caressing his cheeks.
Satoru blearily blinked his eyes open, and then there were damp lips on his.
His entire body jumped. Yashiro was kissing him. He had dreamed of kissing
Yashiro, once—but not like this. Yashiro was supposed to be soft and
understanding and kind; not overflowing with this awkward hunger, too insistent
and with far too much teeth. His mouth was as cold as the rest of him, and for
a second Satoru was frozen by it, his mouth limp underneath Yashiro’s assault.
The monster took advantage, pushing his tongue in with a pleased hum, the
tentacles on Satoru’s chest curling in pleasure. And despite his own
inexperience, Satoru knew when a tongue was just too long to be human.
Immediately his brow furrowed, coughing as Yashiro plunged in too deep, trying
to twist his head away. But Yashiro forced his face forward again, rumbling
something like a growl as his tongue explored inside of Satoru’s mouth, tasting
everything he had.
Instinctively, he tried to push Yashiro away—but the tentacles on his arms held
fast, the ends brushing against the bones of his wrist. Desperate, he kicked at
the air, his legs squirming on either side of Yashiro’s waist. The kraken
pushed down with his hips, grinding down; despite himself, Satoru
whined,feeling his breath steadily being stolen by the kiss.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
When Yashiro finally pulled away, he left Satoru’s lips swollen and red, his
face flushed and panting for air. One of the tentacles between them brushed
against his nipple, the thin end prodding and sliding along the nerves—and
Satoru bit back a groan, his eyes squeezing shut. In the middle of all the
writhing tentacles coiled around his torso, he could feel one of Yashiro’s
hands, the fingers splayed appreciatively across his stomach.
“Do you like that, Satoru?” he asked, his thumb swirling circles in the slick
and slime. Two of the tentacles had found his nipples now, toying with
them—with a grimace, Satoru bit back every desperate moan, his legs squirming
around Yashiro’s hips. Another tendril found its way up to his neck, sliding
loosely around to caress at his jaw; Satoru tried to tilt his head away from
it, squinting up at Yashiro’s face.
“Please,” he panted, “I—we can’t—”
“Shh,” Yashiro crooned, pressing a finger to Satoru’s lips. “Don’t worry. I
will take care of everything.”
A hand slipped underneath the hem of his pants, and Satoru’s eyes shot open
wide.
“No!”he shouted, trying to surge off of the sheets. He could feel his body and
limbs straining against the hold, his muscles shaking with the effort to get
free. But the tentacles around his arms were too strong, and those around his
chest joined in, pushing his entire torso back down into the sheets. Throwing
his head back, Satoru yelled louder, his feet kicking at nothing—desperately
trying to wrestle away the monster settling itself between his legs.
Within seconds, two were tentacles coiled around his ankles, cutting off his
feeble fight. Grunting, he tried to pull his legs free—but at some point, one
of the thick vines had wrapped around his waist, pinning his hips down. All the
while, Yashiro’s hands continued to pull at his clothes, undaunted and
unconcerned as Satoru continued to struggle, his voice coming out in desperate
gasps. “S-stop it—!”
In the end, all he could do was writhe there as his pants were dragged down.
Satoru closed his eyes, and tried not to think about what he must look like
right now: panting, flushed and exposed underneath Yashiro’s stare.
The kraken gave a low rumble, his palm settling affectionately on Satoru’s
exposed hip. Instinctively, he pressed his knees closed—and the purr above
immediately devolved into irritated, hissing clicks. Satoru barely had the
chance to flinch before two tentacles were forcing their way between his legs,
wrapping themselves around his thighs and forcefully prying them open.
A pleased sigh from above, and Satoru felt clammy fingers, stroking his skin.
“Look at me, Satoru.”
For some reason, he did.
Yashiro never looked completely human, not anymore—but Satoru still found his
stomach dropping like a stone at the sight of him now. The black skin of his
true form, usually confined to the edges of Yashiro’s face, had spread like an
infection. His neck, his hands, even the edges of his eyes might as well have
been made of ink: it was just as dark and wet, every touch smearing slime in
its wake. A fan of tentacles hovered behind his back, poised and ready,
twitching in Satoru’s direction.
Yashiro offered a smile down at him, his eyes glowing like beacons in the dark.
Then, all at once, every tendril pulled. Satoru yelped as he was dragged down
the sheets, his hips tugged into Yashiro’s waiting lap. Immediately, he tried
to squirm further away, tried to create some distance—but he could barely move
his fingers, let alone anything else. The limbs around his legs slowly pulled
him open wider, putting him on display.
Yashiro’s eyes flicked from Satoru’s face to between his legs, his head tilting
to the side. Slowly, a slick hand slid up the side of his half-hard length, the
touch tantalizingly light. Satoru’s legs spasmed, but the tentacles clamped
down, keeping him still. Not that Yashiro was upset; if anything, he looked
amused,his smile stretching wide. “There?”
Satoru bit down a moan, his skin hot under the cold touch. Yashiro’s blackened
fingers were slippery and eager, wrapping his cock in a loose grip. Satoru
released a shuddering breath as that hand began to move, the pace painfully
slow. Throwing his head back with a groan, he strained against the tentacle
gripping at his waist, caught between trying to escape from the feeling and
wanting to thrust into it. In the end, he could do neither, trapped and
helplessly unable to do anything but let Yashiro have his way.
The limbs across his chest curled and flexed, shudders shaking through the
formless heap. Yashiro leaned in close, thin pupils dilating as he watched the
reactions flit across human’s face. The kraken’s breath was cold as it landed
across his cheeks, his voice insistent as he whispered: “Does it feel good,
Satoru?”
The grip tightened then—and Satoru gave a short, strangled cry, his toes
curling and back arching. He could feel Yashiro pressing their foreheads
together, pleased clicking sounds filling the air. Two clammy hands reached for
Satoru’s jaw, brushing the hair from his eyes. “Do Imake you feel good?” he
asked again, both thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.
Wait. Satoru forced one eye open, staring up at Yashiro’s face. His gaze was
demanding; scouring and studying every response as he encouragingly stroked
Satoru’s skin. The black of his pupils had almost completely overtaken the
yellow, but that wasn’t what concerned him.
If Yashiro’s hands were up here, on his face, then what was—?
Something gave a twistbetween his legs, tearing a moan from his throat, and
Satoru knew. The tentacle around his cock was tight and wet as it wrapped fully
around him, eagerly stroking up and down. Knowing what it was made Satoru’s
face curl, and he tried once again to somehow shake Yashiro off, his arms and
legs squirming in their restraints. He didn’t so much as budge, but the
tentacles on his torso pushed him firmly down, a warning.
Yashiro leaned closer, his thumb dragging against Satoru’s lower lip. “Just
relax,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his captive’s temple. Satoru’s brow
furrowed, panting openly as the tendrils moved, hungrily feeling at every
exposed inch of him. How the hell was he supposed to relax when he could feel
them crawlingalong his skin, winding up his thighs and towards—
Satoru’s eyes shot open as something slid against his backside, spreading its
slick.
“D-don’t!” he cried, trying once again to yank his legs free. Yashiro continued
to kiss at the side of his face, but he’d clearly heard—the limb wrapped around
his cock picked up its pace, squeezing. Satoru grit his teeth and moaned, even
as the tentacle below continued to rub at his entrance, tentatively prodding at
his hole. “Yashiro—!”
“Relax,” he repeated, drawing the word out, stretching it slow. Satoru grit his
teeth and shook his head in Yashiro’s grip. He couldn’t actually do anything to
stop Yashiro—a realization that made his bones shake and eyes water—but he sure
as hellwasn’t going to make this easy for him. Through wet eyes, Satoru glared
up at him, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Yashiro sighed into his hair, before his voice came up again, wordless and
humming. It took Satoru a moment to recognize it as a tune, and the realization
spread through his veins like ice. “No!” he shouted again, throwing his head
back and away. “Bastard!”
But it didn’t stop the song from working its way into his skull. Satoru sharply
inhaled as he felt the voice flood into his brain, his panic sinking down below
his waking thought. With a small whimper, he felt the tension melt out of his
muscles, his body steadily limp in Yashiro’s firm grip. A satisfied noise
rumbled from somewhere above, and he could feel Yashiro’s fingers, dragging
through his hair.
“Don’t worry,” he purred, pulling back to hover above his prone form. Satoru
tried to fight the music nestled in his mind, his fingertips twitching with the
effort; immediately, tendrils reached up to wrap around his hands, sliding
between his knuckles. The tentacle below circled his entrance, testing and
teasing, and the corners of Yashiro’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Take a deep
breath, Satoru.”
Then, it pushed its way inside.
A short, strangled noise slipped out of his throat. Satoru wordlessly gasped as
the thing pushed its way in, slithering inside. It was slippery, but thicker
than he’d thought, and his body ached from the stretch. Satoru grimaced as he
felt it moveinside of him, twisting and exploring. All the while, the grip on
his cock continued to move, forcing pleasure and stealing moans from his lips.
 
The tentacle pulled out, before harshly thrusting back in—and Satoru couldn’t
do anything but lie there and let it fuck him open. The siren song was still
sitting heavy in his head, and he couldn’t help but feel drunk off the feeling.
All he could think about was the sensation of Yashiro stroking his length, and
the thick member, roughly sliding in and out of him.
And it… it felt good. Dazed, Satoru blinked up at Yashiro, his wet lips parted.
The kraken’s eyes were dilated, never tearing themselves away from Satoru’s
face; his thumb traced against his bottom lip again, dragging the skin with his
touch. His hot breath was landing against the creature’s knuckles, every ragged
gasp and moan echoing between them.
Gently, a second tentacle found its way to his hole, and Satoru gave a pitiful
whine as it forced its way inside. His fingers curled into fists, his nails
digging into the tendrils around his hands—and Yashiro cooed down at him,
affection dripping from him like his slime. “There you go,” he whispered, both
of the tentacles thrusting in and out in time, flexing him open wider. “You’re
doing well.”
“A-ah!” Satoru’s hips bucked as one of them brushed against—something,his
entire vision suddenly flashing white. The tendrils around his hips and legs
clamped down again, holding him tight; despite how badly we wanted to squirm
away from the feeling, Yashiro wouldn’t let him, watching his reactions like a
hawk.
Then: “That’s loose enough, isn’t it?”
Loose enough… for what? Satoru didn’t know—he could barely manage to pick apart
the words, lost in the haze of siren song and ecstasy. The only thing he was
really aware of was the tentacles as they finally slipped out of him, leaving
him hollower than before—and Yashiro’s hands, cupping his ass as he settled
down below.
Something firmer and stiffer than a tentacle rubbed against him, and Satoru
dully thought, oh.
With the barest amount of restraint, he felt Yashiro enter him. His unfocused
eyes widened, a cry wringing out from his throat as Yashiro’s length pushed
deeper into him. This was bigger than either of the tentacles had been, and
Satoru could feel his body clamping down against it. Every part of him tried to
writhe, but nothing was allowed to—but he pointlessly strained against his
bonds all the same, his toes curling and mouth agape.
Something like a growlrumbled out of Yashiro’s throat, every tentacle holding
his lover bruisingly tight. “Satoru,” he muttered, before he began to thrust
again. The pace was brutal from the start, mercilessly hard and fast—and Satoru
whined again, his brow furrowing. A thin tendril pushed the hair out of his
face, and the kraken stared down at him as if he’d found something divine. “Oh,
Satoru, Satoru, Satoru…”
Too rough.Satoru tried to squirm, even as every tentacle pulled him into
Yashiro’s thrusts. Desperate, he looked up at the monster’s face, his cheeks
flushed and voice breathlessly quiet. “Y-Yashiro, s-stop—”
But the rest of his words were swallowed by Yashiro’s mouth. The kraken
descended on him like a starving beast, desperately trying to press their
bodies together. More tentacles than Satoru could count were sliding underneath
his back, pushing him up against Yashiro’s body, holding him in a tight
embrace.
At this point, he didn’t know where the kraken ended and he began—the two of
them tangled in a pile of limbs and tentacles, slick dripping off all their
limbs. And meanwhile, Yashiro kissed him: he pushed his tongue in with the same
fervor as he fucked him, taking without restraint. His human-like hand reached
behind Satoru’s head to pull him in, his long tongue thrusting deep. Satoru
gave another little cough, the taste of the ocean filling his mouth.
Yashiro only pulled away to lick at the tears running down Satoru’s cheeks, his
voice rumbling low. “Perfect,” he growled, angling his hips to try and go
deeper. “You’re perfect, Satoru. Made for me.”
No.Satoru shook his head, even as his face was pressed into the crook of
Yashiro’s neck. The kraken’s chin settled on top of his head, holding him tight
with every limb he had; Satoru shuddered as Yashiro’s cock found that place
again, a jolt of pleasure sending tight and wet cries tearing out of his
throat. The thing gripping his own length kept pumping in time, ecstasy pooling
between his legs.
“All mine,” Yashiro said, a human arm sliding behind Satoru’s waist. “My sea.”
There was nothing he could do but helplessly lie there, and let Yashiro take
what he wanted.
The hot pressure building under his skin finally reached his limit, and
Satoru’s entire body seized as he squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in
Yashiro’s neck as he came. A tight hiss from above, and he could feel Yashiro
thrusts turn frantic, pounding into his tight heat. Another deep growl rumbled
out of the kraken’s chest as he buried himself painfully deep—and then every
tentacle shuddered as one, the shivers rolling down their limbs. Satoru shook
too, still suffering from the aftershocks of orgasm, hanging limp in Yashiro’s
hands.
The kraken all but collapsed on top of him, sagging happily into his prisoner.
Satoru grimaced as he felt something thick and hot pooling inside of him; even
though Yashiro was still inside, it was already leaking out, running down his
backside. The grip on his limbs was looser, at least—and Satoru successfully
squirmed against Yashiro’s chest, awkwardly trying to detangle himself from the
hold.
Yashiro sighed happily into his hair, before the tentacles gripped at Satoru
again, keeping him still.
Tilting his head back, he tried to stare at the kraken’s face, his voice
scraped raw. “Yashiro…?”
The kraken gave a happy hum, before he rocked into Satoru again. The human’s
eyes widened, because it was too much, too much! His oversensitive body began
desperately trying to scramble away from Yashiro’s cock, his fingers seeking
purchase in the sheets. Despite the ache permeating his limbs, Satoru began
kicking, trying to escape from underneath the monster’s mass. “W-wait—what are
you— stop—!”
Yashiro didn’t, continuing to eagerly thrust his still-hard length back into
Satoru. The human gave a curse as he was pulled back down, all of Yashiro’s
limbs pinning him between the kraken and the blankets. Yashiro ducked down to
nip and suck at his neck, and Satoru stared at the ceiling over his shoulder,
barely catching the words whispered into his throat.
“Let’s make each other feel good again, Satoru.”

(The sun was setting outside of the windows when he finally passed out.)
 
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     (｢• ω •)｢ Happy New Year! Phew, this little smut add-on ended up
     taking... a good deal longer than anticipated. And ended up longer
     than I thought, too!
     Some notes about this AU, that I couldn't manage to find a way to
     work in:
     - Yashiro learnt about sex after overhearing two sailors talking
     about it. He came right back to Satoru once he got the basics.
     - The cave they're in isn't too far from the town where they first
     met. Yashiro wanted to be near a human settlement that he knows has
     what Satoru needs.
     - Kazu conveniently knows about the kraken, has Satoru's original
     sketchbook that was left behind on the ship, and has seen Yashiro
     with his own two eyes. When he makes it back to Ishikari, he won't
     keep any of that knowledge to himself.
     - (So, yes, there are people actively looking for Satoru right now.)
     - Satoru is going to be very, very sore and in quite a bit of pain
     the next day, leading to a very apologetic Yashiro who realizes he
     needs to learn some limits.
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