"I half closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field and gradually get larger until I'd see it was Tommy, and he'd wave, and maybe even call."
― Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go
-ooo-
The night sky is pale with the inevitability of the rising sun by the time Mr. Sasaki escorts them out to a car that's meant to take the two of them back to the Chateau.
Saiko's feet scuffed loudly against the sidewalk as she shuffled out with them to the waiting car. Her fingers were wound tight in the hem of Tooru's shirt and she was already practically asleep on her feet, stumbling a bit every few steps, her head nodding heavily. Still, when they reached the car and Tooru opened the door to guide her inside, she still turned back with red-rimmed eyes and whimpered a sleepy, plaintive 'Maman'.
For his part, Tooru was almost relieved when Mr. Sasaki doesn't respond to her, instead having turned to greet the driver who had hobbled over to him to take their destination information. He bowed to the man, his posture stiff, and offered the information with the same strained false cheer and bland politeness he'd been using for the past few hours of interviews and debriefs.
It still made him feel nauseous to see it, to hear it, and so he hurried into the car behind Saiko, pulling the door shut and leaving Mr. Sasaki to deal with the details.
"Mucchan?" Saiko murmured as she tucked her feet up on the seat beside her before scooting closer so that she could curl against his side.
"Hm?"
"Does your head still hurt?"
"It's better than it was," he replied, forcing a smile he doesn't feel as she nodded and tucked her splotchy face against his shoulder. "I'm just… tired."
"Me too," she whispered, her reply muffled against his shoulder. "Is Urie-bou coming? Are we waiting for him?"
"I don't think so," Tooru sighed, shifting to get comfortable against the seat. "I haven't seen him since the second set of interviews. He might have already been sent back."
"He was really mad at Maman, wasn't he?"
Tooru sighed, turning his gaze up to the ceiling, glad the driver was still occupied outside with Mr. Sasaki. "No, I don't think so. I might be wrong, but… sometimes I think it's easier to be angry than sad."
"That makes sense, I guess. Especially for Urie-bou," Saiko turned her head to the side, giving a jaw-cracking yawn as she rubbed the back of one fist against over her eyes.
Silence hung awkwardly in the air between them for what seemed like a long time, but was probably only seconds, before Saiko murmured, "When Shiragin… Urie-bou was really…."
She trailed off, but then she didn't really need to finish for Tooru to understand what she meant. It wasn't like he was going to forget the sound of Urie's voice, wild and hoarse and screaming at Shirazu long after Shirazu had….
He let a hand settle against Saiko's wild hair, left loose to dry. She probably hadn't had a brush to use as they'd each only had the change of clothes they'd been provided, which was probably why it was extra puffy.
"Yeah." he commented finally, mostly to fill the silence up with something besides the memory of Urie's pain. "I know."
Silence fell again, awkward and strange between them in a way it had never been before. Tooru didn't know what to say, how to fill it up. He'd never been good at small talk under even ideal circumstances. He didn't know how to say anything that would make anything better either, make anything hurt less.
"Did Maman say when he'd come home?" Saiko asked suddenly, jolting up and leaning over to peer out at Mr. Sasaki through the darkly tinted window of the fancy car.
He could hear the low murmur of Mr. Sasaki's voice and the driver's response even if he can't quite make out what they're saying. Saiko could probably hear every syllable. "Soon," he lied, hoping he sounded at least a little convincing. He didn't really want to explain to Saiko that Mr. Sasaki had to wait for Shi- for the body to arrive so he could identify him and sign off on all the paperwork.
That was another conversation he could do without.
-ooo-
Shirazu grinned, poking his chopsticks at Tooru before tilting the last of the soup into his mouth and hopping down from the counter to put the cup in the trash. "All I'm saying is that it's pretty freaking cool. I mean, it isn't like there was anyone else to do it really, since it's not like Haru couldn't handle all that stuff being like she is now and my Mom… I mean, who knows where she is, right? Still though, I mean, it's not like he had to volunteer to be my guardian. They could have given us like caseworkers or something instead, right? I think that's what they do with regular investigators and academy kids who don't have any family left. So, yeah, I mean, it's cool that he did. He's yours too, right?"
"Y-yeah," Tooru replied stumbling over the word, unsure where Shirazu was going with all this or why he'd brought it up in the first place.
"So, I was thinking that makes it like we're brothers now or something." Shirazu's cheeks had been flushed red and his grin had been so wide and pleased that Tooru hadn't had the heart to tell him that Mr. Sasaki was responsible for all of them that way, even Saiko. Whether he had volunteered or not had never really even occurred to Tooru before that moment and he didn't know whether it meant anything at all.
"Y-yeah," he'd replied finally when he realized Shirazu was waiting on him for a response. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, unsure what else to say. His family had been… had been… and the Quinx were… "It's really nice of him," he finished lamely, offering a smile that he hoped didn't look half as strained as it felt.
Shirazu nodded eagerly, pulling another cup noodles from the cabinet and splashing some water in before tucking it into the microwave to heat. "So, what I'm saying is we should hang out more when we're not out on missions and stuff. We could do something today. Like go out to karaoke or, um, I don't know, what do brothers do?"
"You're asking me?" Tooru murmured, twisting his fingers together nervously. He didn't even know what friends did together, really, much less siblings. Whether there was even a difference. He'd never spent much time with anyone else voluntarily even… even before.
"Yeah, I mean-" He cut himself off as the front door opened and shut with a decisive click. A few moments later, the microwave beeped and Urie slipped in, headphones on, dressed in his workout gear. His hair was damp with sweat, swiped back impatiently back from his face as was his habit. There was dirt smudged across his knees and face and Tooru could feel the chill lingering on his skin as he brushed past him.
He didn't look at either of them as he pulled a water bottle from the fridge before disappearing down the hall without a word.
Tooru watched him go in silence, bottom lip pinned between his teeth. He wanted to say something, call him back maybe, but he couldn't seem to find the words.
Shirazu, on the other hand, glared after him, mouth screwed up into a scowl, "You don't think Sassan is responsible for him too, do you? That would suck. I mean, who would want that freaking bastard for a brother, huh?"
-ooo-
"He had a few more things to do, but I'm sure he'll follow us when he's done." Tooru continued, clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably as she shook away that strange floating fragment of memory. Another reluctant glance towards the pair outside had him wondering again what they could possibly be talking about for so long. Had it been minutes since they'd gotten in the car? Hours? He wasn't sure. His head hurt. Not knowing made him feel kind of nervous.
"You should try to sleep," he offered finally, turning his attention back to Saiko. "It'll be a long drive home and it's been a really bad day."
Saiko nodded, settling back against Tooru's shoulder again with another yawn, "Okay, thanks, Mucchan."
"Of course," he replied, feeling a little guilty. He watched silently as the driver and Mr. Sasaki said their farewells and the driver turned to make his slow, ponderous journey around the car to take his place in the driver's seat.
Mr. Sasaki lingered near the car, watching him go, his smile fading and cracking around the edges like burning paper, a façade of happiness drifting away on an indifferent wind.
Tooru stared at him through the dark windows and wondered, as that long and terrible night continued to bleed into dismal morning, where the Mr. Sasaki they had known had gone.
If he would ever be able to come back to them.
If he had ever even existed at all.
The door dinged quietly when the driver opened it and slipped inside. He smelled vaguely of some sort of thick pricey cologne that was probably meant to cover the scent of cheap cigarettes that clung to him.
Maybe it worked on normal people, but he doubted it.
It certainly didn't work with them.
Saiko snuffled again, burying her face tighter against Tooru's shoulder, reminding him that if he could smell it then it was probably a lot worse for her, her senses have always been far keener than his own. The old man hadn't noticed their discomfort at all, too caught up in his own concerns as he cleared his throat and shifted about to get comfortable before adjusting the seat and mirrors to suit him.
Tooru's nose has never been as sensitive as Saiko's, but even he can tell they weren't the first people to have been ferried home in that car since the raid had begun the previous night. The fading scent of soap and sweat and the far more obvious reek of drying blood hung thick in the recycled air, making his stomach flip and squirm. There were shiny patches and smears on the dark leather of the seats, more obvious now in the shifting light as the sun broke over the horizon and spilled yellow light through the buildings of downtown into the car. His fingers itched to touch those spots, just to see if his fingers would come away wet. There were pale glistening lumps ground into the carpet and the idea that they're globs of flesh or fat tracked in by unsuspecting boots lodged in his brain. He squirmed in his seat a little, uncomfortable, and forced himself to look away.
He'd been… more sensitive to that kind of stuff since the auction and it was… harder to ignore when he was injured or exhausted.
He licked his lips nervously, swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut. The thought of it should have made him want to gag, should have made him feel sick.
It didn't.
He really was losing it.
He dug the fingers of his free hand into his knee until the pain was enough to distract him from those sorts of weird wandering thoughts.
It wasn't as if he'd ever… would ever… it was just…
His head had been full to bursting with strange and terrible thoughts all night and it ached behind his eyes and it was hard to focus on any one thing for very long, to keep track of time or thoughts or feelings or… anything, really.
Shirazu, Mr. Sasaki…
It was all too much.
He let his head drop back against seat and almost immediately regretted it as the world wobbled around him. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through his mouth. His aching head felt better with both eyes open, hidden as they were behind stolen sunglasses.
He could still feel the press of Urie's bare, shower-warm hands against his face, lingering against his cheeks long after he had pushed the over-large glasses into place.
Urie…
-ooo-
"Sasaki's right," he'd murmured, gaze distant, mouth twisted in disgust. They were standing inches apart, Urie's fingers still framing his face, and yet it felt like they were miles and miles away from each other. "Weak. We're all… weak."
-ooo-
Tooru still sometimes dreamt about the auction.
Or about parts of that night at any rate.
He'd wake up in the middle of the night, panting, sheets soaked with sweat and reeking of fear, thoughts of the raid chasing each other madly about in his head. He'd only ever remember scraps of what he dreamt, but always enough to know. Know that there were things about that night that had seemed to lodge inside his soul and refused to leave him be.
All those eyes on him, seeing him, judging him. How difficult it had been to breathe even before his eyepatch had been stripped away.
How naked, how exposed, he'd felt without it.
Choking on indecision.
That man's touch on his shoulder. His voice, muffled ever so slightly by the mask and pitched low so only he could hear: "The operation failed. Help won't come."
Sometimes he dreamt about that moment when he'd thought Urie would be eaten. Dreamt that he was frozen in place, locked within the fragile prison of his own injured body as he watched, horrified, as Urie's still form disappeared into the ghastly mouth of that ghoul. And in those dreams, he would watch, helpless, useless, unable to do anything but curse his own weakness as Urie was consumed utterly.
And then Big Madam would lick her generous lips until they glistened, sloppy and wet, and come for him.
More often he dreamt about how it had felt as his kagune had finally emerged. That weird feeling of satisfaction, as if he'd had a thorn lodged within his skin, a prickly inescapable pain, and it had finally been torn loose or given way. It had been such a relief. It had been as if he were emerging fully formed from the tattered husk of the person he used to be and becoming himself in some strange, indefinable way.
It had felt… amazing and strange and terrible all at once.
And as he'd knelt there on the floor of that bloodstained room, with his kagune fully formed and curved protectively around them, all he'd been able to think of had been Urie.
Urie who had always tried to keep them at arm's length, to live and work with them without ever truly being one of them, Urie who was somehow both incredibly strong and terribly fragile in the most unexpected ways. He'd wanted, needed, to protect him, but he hadn't known how to do that when the greatest threat to Urie seemed to be Urie himself.
And so he'd offered what words he could, shaky and uncertain and probably not what Urie wanted or needed to hear, but they were all he'd had to give, exhausted as he was by injury and the emergence of his kagune, his whole body aching and cramping and ill. And something must have helped, because Urie had quieted, had murmured his name as they huddled together, not quite touching.
And maybe that's why he kept dreaming of those moments over and over again, because somehow kneeling there with Urie had felt… intimate in a way nothing else ever really had. Like they'd been sharing secrets, however unwillingly, and those moments had… changed things between them in some still undefined way.
He still found himself periodically remembering and dwelling on the oddest things.
The way Urie's voice had sounded as he lost control completely, his composure shattering like porcelain across those cold, dirty floors.
How Urie had said his name… so different than anyone else ever had. Like it meant something, like he meant something, even if he wasn't quite certain what.
All the odd moments since when maybe things hadn't been obviously different between them, but they hadn't been the same either.
Once or twice those dreams of the underground, of Urie, had gotten really… weird and everything had gotten all mixed up and turned around as reason and the thread of reality got lost in a strange, messy blur of emotion and contact that had never really happened. Those dreams were always all color and obscene noises and gloved hands pressed against the small of his back, sliding around his kagune, tracing the scar on his chest, touching the edges of his binder. He'd always wake up from those dreams curled around his pillow, sobbing, stomach aching, shivering and restless and confused.
He'd be so ashamed afterwards that he'd be unable to look Urie in the face properly for days.
Most often he dreamt about that hall he'd run across when he'd been injured and frightened, fleeing one ghoul and then another, wandering lost and alone through the dark. That dark, quiet place filled with the dead.
In those dreams he was always… different.
He always felt like a stranger, even to himself. A desperate, terrifying, needy stranger, sick and aching and it always felt like he was barely holding himself together… and that hall… the way it smelled, the way it made him feel, the way it reeked of flesh and blood and death…
It had made him…
Made him feel…
Hungry.
No, that wasn't…
Not hungry.
Sick.
Just…
...Sick.
And sometimes even now, months later, he'd wake to find he'd chewed his lips bloody in his sleep and the taste would be thick and cloying and nauseatingly familiar on his tongue.
It was disgusting, revolting, and he doesn't like to think about it, any of it, but his head wasn't really the nicest place in town after everything that had happened and he kept getting distracted and losing himself down those dark, vicious, pointless corridors of memory.
At least there in the car there was no one to judge him for it. No one to sigh, irritated, as they had to repeat their question to him a second or third time. No Mr. Sasaki standing behind him, hand resting like a perching bird on his shoulder, to make polite excuses for his inattention.
His head ached, a dull throbbing pain behind his eyes that had been there to varying degrees since he'd awoken to the aftermath of that battle. Intellectually, he knows it's just the damage healing itself, that it'll fade, but it's still….
A mechanical whir startled him from his thoughts.
He glanced up and caught the driver looking at them in the rearview mirror as the black shaded privacy glass began to rise between them.
There was pity in that glance.
Pity and sympathy and sadness and he couldn't quite decide how he felt about that before the glass slid into place between them and the whirring sound ground to a halt. He could hear the man shift the car into gear and then it was pulling away from the curb, leaving headquarters and Mr. Sasaki behind as it merged with the sparse early morning traffic.
What did that stranger see when he looked at them?
Did he know who they were? What they were?
It wasn't obvious, he supposed, even with Mr. Sasaki escorting them out, looking after them.
Supervising them as if they were children or pets that couldn't be trusted to fend for themselves.
Tooru sighed, pressing his free hand against his forehead and rubbing vigorously.
That thought hadn't been fair or kind.
Even if Mr. Sasaki wasn't… he'd never treated them with anything but respect. They were all injured and exhausted and it wasn't fair to assume Mr. Sasaki's presence and concern had been anything but genuine.
-ooo-
"You're going to need to learn to fend for yourself," Mr. Sasaki murmured, his voice like a chill wind blowing over his spine as they stepped out of the interview room into the empty hall. "I won't always be here to fight your battles for you, Mutsuki."
He'd found himself staring after him, unwanted tears stinging his eyes, as Mr. Sasaki disappeared back into the interview room where they were already questioning Saiko, the door clinking shut softly behind him.
He fell back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground, pulling his knees up against his chest.
Did they all think of him like that?
Did everyone in the squad think he was still that weak?
Had Shirazu?
-ooo-
He could imagine that they must look even younger than they actually were dressed in the plain, loose fitting black clothes that had been provided for them to change into.
They'd probably just looked like two kids, far too young for this sort of work, exhausted and traumatized by whatever they'd seen and experienced.
Not too far from the truth, really.
He wasn't surprised when Saiko began to snore softly, her grip on the hem of his shirt growing slack, fingers falling to lie against the seat even as gravity guided her head in a slow uneven descent down his arm. Sighing, Tooru shifted her carefully so that her head was pillowed against his thigh. She mumbled something about cookies and shifted, snuggling in and getting comfortable.
Tooru sighed and turned his gaze back to the window to watch the waking city pass them by as the car sped through the near deserted streets and up onto the highway. They'd probably be home in half an hour if they didn't run into traffic.
Home.
Would it still be that?
It would be empty when they got there.
No Urie.
No Mr. Sasaki.
No Shirazu.
The dishes from their early supper would still be piled unwashed in the sink. Shirazu's mug would still be waiting for them on the table, half full of stale coffee, because he never, ever remembered to rinse it or put it in the sink.
God.
His eyes burned with unshed tears and he closed them tightly, ignoring the damp that leaked out and dribbled lazily down over his cheekbones and the dizziness that made his head feel light and uncertain.
Someone would want to come and clean out his room. Box all his things away, store them as… evidence or keep them in trust for his sister or… he didn't even know.
They'd talked once or twice about their testaments, but never in too much detail. Shirazu had always laughed and said it was too depressing and it had been, but now he wished….
He wished they'd done it anyway.
He wished a lot of things.
Mostly that he himself had been stronger.
Always that.
-ooo-
