Written a year and a half ago; storing for archival purposes. Just a harmless little afterthought set after the manga's end. Nothing to see here, this is largely a reminder to myself to finish a final monstrous WIP that's been sitting on my desktop since late 2012. God, old fandoms. Anyway, I neither own nor am associated with Air Gear, etc.

welcome to nightmare

It is, in the end, a Kogarasumaru victory first.

There's been a string of them lately, come to think of that. Kazu's pretty sure, anyway—he's just finding it kind of hard to count right now. It's an awesome night, he knows that much—Ikki's still standing on the main junction of tables, arguing Buccha down about who's going to outdrink who while the rest of the team boasts and chatters throughout the room and Onigiri sinks into satisfied, leering dreams in a corner. Kind of early for Onigiri, but they've got a good mood going, and as long as the leader's still going and nobody's about to die, there aren't going to be a lot of complaints.

(Actually, while he's on that thought, Yayoi'd been the one to hand Onigiri that cup at the start of the party, hadn't she?)

Ideas flick by like fish, slippery in his mind's hands. Kazu tries counting those too—fish are countable, they're made to be counted, and then eaten—gives them up with easy grace. What the hell, anyway. The world's hit that point of pleasant sharpness—colors warming like sunlight to the eye, honing everything to brilliant edges and lines. He thinks about unbraking his A-Ts and taking a spin through the room—see how far he can get before he has to touch somebody to get past. The way he calculates it, he could get to forever if he times it right.

Right now, everything feels like it could last forever.

It's that thought which unhitches him from his chair. He throws a paper cup at Ikki's head to tell him that he's heading out—decides against saying anything when it sticks instead on the back of their illustrious leader's head. In fact, by the time he catches up to his own plans, Kazu's already taking the steps two by three up the stairs.

It was a good match, he thinks as he climbs, for what must be the hundredth time that night—and by now it's degenerated into one of the Great Truths of the Universe, and nothing Mikura Kazuma has to think about or acknowledge for it to be real. That doesn't unravel the memory, though—of wheels spinning, sharpening, sparking beneath his feet, twisting into flight as he jumped the ledge, caught steel and stirred it into flame. The kind of clean victory that technology's really always been meant for. The remembrance's close enough to scorch him, and it's in the flush of that warmth that he shoulders the door open and steps through it into the night air.

What's been bothering him about the party clicks into place as something cuts through shadow. In the seconds it takes for Kazu's eyes to adjust, he recognises it less by shape than by instinct: in all the world, there's no wind or knife or insult so sharp as Agito sober. His movement's as good as a fingerprint.

He lifts a hand. "Yo," he starts.

The silhouette jerks its head. "Don't come anywhere near me, fuck. I can smell it on you from here."

Kazu ducks his head and laughs. There's a heady feeling telling him to jeer back, the easy kind of feeling that always comes after a few drinks. He swallows it down with cold air and the rest of his greeting. People say that Kazu sees too much—actually, they tend to say it with a hint to their tone, and now that he's thinking about it, that's more insulting than anything. But the point, he reasons, trying to circle back around to logic—the point is that he kind of gets what they mean—and, then again, he kind of doesn't. The way Agito's leaning against the fence, for instance: fingers idly hooked in the mesh, eye tracking every bit of motion in the gloom, letting his weight sink against it in the tiniest—and possibly the only—concession he's ever made to relaxing while in possession. Kazu notices these things because he looks for them—they call out to him like signs saying don't piss off a shark today and maybe they won't need to mail you home in barglasses. He doesn't see how that's a bad thing.

At least it tells him that Agito's not about to kick him off the roof for intruding.

"Thought you'd be gone by now," he says, for lack of anything else to start. He slumps down by the door. The coolness seems to rub off on his palm; Kazu turns his hand over and runs his knuckles across a stretch of stone. Wonders, almost immediately after, if he could use it to make the jump to the next roof, and the next. The idea pulls at him; everything ties back to flying right now, with adrenaline bright as electricity lighting up every thought.

A scoff answers him, curling like a hiss, and Kazu drags his attention back. "You're getting slow, beanpole," Agito remarks, but there's no venom in the words. "We're outside territory and we just cut another worthless team down." His mouth cracks a jagged grin. "Thought we might get visitors."

"Still nothing, though, huh," he observes. This comment is greeted by stark, heavy-jawed silence. Only when it lingers does Kazu figure out what he's said wrong. He rakes a hand through his hair. It's easy to forget sometimes that Agito isn't older than Akito—isn't, for that matter, older than him—and that for all his scars and airs and knife-quick efficiency on every kill, it's really his pride that trips people up.

The quiet's left to stew for another stretch of minutes before Kazu breaks it again. "Hey, Agito."

"Now what?"

"Thanks."

Another silence receives this—and a little mutter even Kazu's ear doesn't quite catch, though he's got a pretty good idea. "If anything but your voice comes out of that mouth," Agito says in its wake, all disdain and no impression made at all, "I'll crack your teeth in their gums and you can drown in it."

Kazu grins, wider. If life were a video game, he's pretty sure, this would count as a fifteen-hit combo. He waves a hand. "You just cleaned your A-Ts. Don't waste that on me."

"Don't worry about that," Agito says, all teeth. "If it gets some quiet around here, it won't be a waste."

He tells himself that this doesn't, in fact, terrify him, and the sake agrees. Secured, Kazu stretches his fingertips out and the flex of bone and sinew and thinner veins jerks him back to the flame and grit of battle only a few hours earlier. But this movement costs him nothing. He gets up; the world expands, seems to breathe a little as he stands—and the best part, he knows, is that there's more of it, always more. He wanders over to the fence, taking a little grace in the fact that Agito doesn't stop him. His fingers lock in the wire mesh as he looks down. The city's awah in lights: streetlamps like firefly sparks spilling together in the distance. A constellation of roads. The night air tightens in his throat; it's early yet—he knows it, feels the promise in every breath. "Guess I could always do a run," he says.

"Your balance is shit," Agito says—he doesn't even look. "You'll run down the wall, smash through a window and spend tomorrow picking glass out from between your wheels and what's left of your leg."

"—oi."

"If you're lucky."

"Oi." This strikes Kazu as a vast insult. He straightens, much helped by the fence, and jabs a finger at Agito, all aggrieved. "A thousand—a thousand-thousand years of dumbing me down wouldn't make me stupid enough to run on a window!"

The gesture gets Agito's attention pretty much the way words didn't. One visible eye tracks the movement; his teeth slide over his lip in deliberate show—and actually, is it just the night or has he always hadfangs? "You wouldn't even need that long. Fuck, the sky'll be there tomorrow. Day after tomorrow, too." He flicks upward; even his hands curl with disdain. "Get over it."

Kazu follows the gesture, tipping his head back to look as he hangs onto the fence by his fingers. The moon's out in full force tonight, almost too big to seize in a fist—though he isn't even tipsy enough to try. He likes the look of it, though, and it's impossible not to wonder how far he could follow the light before sight fails him and he has to start running off of sparks on railings through the dark. Hell, the whole city's open for flight and they're here, cooped up on a roof and just watching. Storm Riders, watching. Isn't that crazy enough?

"Focus, beanpole. Fuck, if you're going to take up space, don't be dull about it."

Under night, it occurs to him that what's oddest about Agito's expression is the way he looks like Akito—which is a damn weird thought, but it's true. Close up, even without the eyepatch, it's hard to mistake them. Akito holds his breath when he's thinking too hard, casts a low glance before meeting anybody's eyes, drifts from thought to thought with such a lack of effort that it's almost a surprise every time when he shows intention. The years of layered fights pale over him; he touches them least of anything, and they almost seem to disappear for the inattention. In shadow Agito wears all his scars, every ridge and stain that could have ever marked him printed in his skin like a tattoo. There's nothing hazy about him; even the little pull of his mouth into a smile tugs at ice in the spine, sweat at the nape. Any half-baked instinct for self-preservation would whisper: predator in the grass, stay the fuck down.

Right now, though, they're mingled; even the eyepatch could be a straying shadow. Only his raggedy-rough voice is sure enough, and there's no promise to trust in that but blood.

Kazu looks up again—saves him thought, and it's enough if they know the difference between themselves and stay. It's not his business, but it's important, somehow, that Agito does. "It's worth it for you too," he says, and the words tumble easy off his tongue. "Right?"

He knows it's a dumb question even before the sneer twitches at Agito's mouth, stretching the line of it tight. These are the things Kogarasumaru's meant to understand without question—and everybody (read: Itsuki "That Drunken Bastard Downstairs" Minami) knows that real Storm Riders don't talk about their feelings. but he's always wanted to know, in the idle way of curiosity. How much of it was Akito and how much was blood—and how much of it, really, was for the sheer thrill of seeing the ground racing close in a fall? Talent doesn't mean anything except that he can outstrip them, and it doesn't matter if Kazu knows that he can run.

That's not what he's asking.

"Fuck," Agito spits, as if emotion might get its germs on him and he could be forever tainted, like Akito wouldn't have passed on automatic immunity to those. He turns his head, looks past the buildings and towards the horizon, where the light waits like an answer.

"It's not bad," he admits. Every word's pulled like a tooth. "Flying just to fly."

Kazu's great flaw, he knows, is that he's aware of the little things, but never of a bigger picture; his sleeves bunched above the elbows and hood hanging steady against his back, the fence's bite against his palms, moonlight softening his sight into shadows. And there's Agito, too, in fragments: his stiff-pressed mouth with a trace of tooth at the lip, blood flecked along his wrist, distance and an empty horizon in his lightless eye. At the moment, he really can't count how long he's known Agito—and, as a matter of fact, numbers in general seem kind of mystic and deserving of some acknowledgment right now, like the foundation of the Get-A-Goddamn-Calculator Road.

The number doesn't matter, anyway. He doesn't know the right words, never has, is kind of resigned to a life of inarticulate handgestures. But it's a good answer to have. That's all it needs to be.

Then Agito looks at him. His mouth flattens; his eyes narrow. Kazu barely has warning enough to back away, and he's aware that to a shark's suspicious eye, the curve on his mouth probably looks really, really bad. Like team reminiscing. Like fondness.

"Fuck," Agito repeats, more viciously, and kicks him off the roof.

end