Notes: I felt like I needed these two to have a proper conversation at some point between Mikoto's prison break and the island takeover so this is that in two small parts and POV's. Mentions of past character death and talk of death as a bit of a running theme. The relationship can be interpreted however. Title from Imogen Heap's Clear the Area.

x

i)

He's smoking behind the bar when Izumo finds him, plucks the cigarette from his fingers and takes a drag, exhales slow and then cuts right to the chase with, "So, your sword is in crap condition."

Mikoto grumbles, something under his breath along the lines of get your own damn cigarettes, because the Red King certainly does not whine but it's a very near thing. They used to do this when they were kids, couldnt scrap up much so ended up sharing everything from clothes to beds to bad habits, splitting cigarettes and rent and body heat. Now, Izumo almost finds it poetic that Mikoto's got fire as his element. If nothing else, at least there's no fear anymore of either of them catching chills in December nights much like these.

"Don't tell me Munakata has been conspiring with you too."

"Didn't need to conspire with anyone." Izumo says, thinks it an amusing picture, meeting with the Blue King behind Mikoto's back. Well, he has other sources. "With everything that's happened, I get it, yeah? We'll work it out."

"What now?" The bitterness is there, just below the surface of his easy drawl. "He give you lessons before he die?"

"Nah," Izumo's laugh is wistful at best, "although I guess he rubbed off anyway. He also believed in you so don't do him a disservice."

"Pretty hard to disappoint a dead guy."

Izumo blows out a weary breath, finds that he doesn't quite agree with that. "Well, we don't go down without a fight, or isnt that the kind of nonsense we've started saying around here?"

Mikoto snatches his cigarette back and his lips twitch around it. If they could only tune out the context, it's all actually kind of peaceful in this strange, familiar way, so eerily like the calm before the storm. And, of course, Izumo knows he has to ruin it. There are things he'd rather not say, never thought he'd need to say, but he never thought any of this would be happening either so the trade-off ends up being what it is. "Not going to have anyone else die on me either," he says, far too brightly, "just so we're clear, and don't even think of pulling that King crap on me."

Mikoto makes a noise that Izumo's learned to discern over the years, some strange hybrid of annoyance and amusement, says, "Never works on you anyway."

Izumo smiles at him, fond. "You wouldn't want it to."

"Maybe just once," he says and smiles crookedly, just to be difficult.

ii)

After running through Mikoto's, Izumo's about to pull out one of his own cigarettes before Mikoto stills his hand, lights another one of his and passes it over. It feels like some kind of peace offering for a fight they haven't yet had, might not get the time to have, and if they do, there might not be the time to apologize for it later.

Mikoto tries not to think much of his clan following him into whatever fresh hell he carves out for himself. He trusts them to be smarter than that and, if not, they make their own decisions and deal with the consequences. He's not going to dissuade them from what they want, whether it is to deflect or follow him to the bitter end. Izumo, however, is maybe the only exception to this rule. The irony is not lost on him because Izumo is probably the sharpest and brightest thing he's ever seen, could have done so much more for himself if he didn't so blindly believe in Mikoto's joke of a kingship and if Mikoto hadn't so selfishly let him continue believing.

Well, he figures, it's time to dispel the illusion now.

Izumo knocks him on the head, says, "I can tell whatever's going through your head is bad news, so stop."

Mikoto snorts a half-laugh. It might be for the best, he sometimes thinks. He can't imagine a world where he outlives Izumo so maybe this will work out just fine.

"It's gonna have to go through me," and it's spoken so soft into the dark that it would get lost in the breeze if Mikoto wasn't standing this close to him. "Whatever comes at you. Your sword. The world."

"That," says Mikoto, wants to laugh-and also maybe strangle him a little because for someone who is so fucking smart he's also a complete idiot, "is not how the rules work."

"Well, you know me." Izumo takes the cigarette back, this time from between his lips, "Never been all that good with rules."

Sometimes, Mikoto wishes he were, thinks, It would have saved you a world of trouble, saved from getting caught up in all this, saved you from me.

And like the splitting of cigarettes and Izumo's sentimental rambling, there are a great many other old habits that die hard. Izumo's arm is a solid line against him. Mikoto tilts his head, lets it fall against his shoulder. It's only times like these when he appreciates the few centimeters Izumo has over him; it's still a strain on his neck but not all that much. He takes back his cigarette, slow and deliberate enough that their fingers brush, inhales deep and tries to hold on for as long as possible to the burn in his lungs and every last bit of this moment.

"Never been much for all this blood, bones and ash business either," Izumo says quietly, "to be honest with you."

Mikoto exhales, thinks he can see the shadow of Totsuka's smile in the smoke, and Isn't that how we all end up? "Maybe," he says, "you picked the wrong place to be."

Izumo turns his head to the side, just close enough to sweep by Mikoto's ear, says, "I wouldn't trade it for the world."