on the incomprehensibility of grief
A week after Suoh Mikoto's death, Seri enters Bar HOMRA at three in the morning. It's a weekday, and she hasn't bothered to change out of her uniform. Still, Izumo looks up from scrubbing the counters and smiles.
He's had a few drinks of his own, but still takes her coat as she comes in. Instead of her customary place at the counter, she sits on the couch, folding her arms as Izumo joins her. "Seri-chan," he greets her, and she tolerates the proximity of his lips to her neck because he's drunk, and grieving.
"How are things?"
It may be a silly question considering the circumstances, but she's asked it every night so far. He tells her of how each of them deals with the loss in their own way during the day, but how during the night they congregate at the bar and it all seems fresh again. He tells her about how HOMRA's enemies see in them only a time of weakness, an opportunity to settle grudges by attacking them while they're freshly wounded. He tells her that he misses Mikoto, and wishes Totsuka was here, and she listens and breathes in the cigarette scent of his hair.
He's dropped silent and is idly tracing a hand around her shoulder when he seems to finally take notice that she's still in her uniform. "Overtime again?"
"Unfortunately," she says, feeling vaguely guilty. Your king left not only his own blood, bone, and ash everywhere, she wants to say, but a hell of a mess behind too.
She wants to tell him of her troubles—of how Munakata drives restlessly through the mountain of paperwork left in Suoh's wake and otherwise locks himself in his office doing puzzles when they used to share meals together; of how Fushimi's grown gaunt and terribly on edge, mulling over a loss he can't divine the shape of; of how she can barely keep her men from whispering about their behavior—but knows it would be inappropriate given the scale of his troubles compared to hers.
She stands, and gathers her coat.
"You don't want a drink?" Izumo blinks, his hand still perched in midair where it was a moment ago resting on her thigh. "I… I've even got a new shipment of red bean paste."
Suddenly he looks desperately lonely, and all she can think is that it's Suoh Mikoto's fault. How selfish their king was.
How she wishes he was still alive.
v
When the call comes in that there's been a scuffle between HOMRA and the Greens, Seri expects nothing more than some routine conflict mediation. She's even glad for the distraction, as the promise of violence sends a bolt of sapphire through Fushimi's dulled eyes. (She used to hate that expression of his. Now she feels only relief.)
As she and the team come upon the warehouse where the fight had taken place, the silence within tells them immediately that they're too late. She grits her teeth, wrenching open the doors.
It's painted red inside.
That's all she can think as her men let out exclamations of shock—that someone's mistaken the blank warehouse walls for a canvas, and the HOMRA members' innards as an exotic shade of paint. Perhaps if she thinks of the stench of their entrails as simply a particularly offensive kind of chemical fume—
She hears a strangled choke next to her, and follows Fushimi's gaze to a particular body in the massacre. Ribs wrenched up through the skin, eyes shocked open, the figure is barely recognizable as HOMRA's one and only Yatagarasu. Only the skateboard next to him, cleaved in half, serves to distinguish him.
Seri has little time to study the particulars of Yata's disembowelment, however, as Fushimi tumbles ungracefully to his knees next to her. His slender body snaps in half, his back arching as he retches, but only gasps issue forth from his mouth—and that's right, when was the last time she saw Fushimi eat?
"Call in the cleanup team," she barks, and lets her men do their work as she kneels beside him. His breath knifes through him as his body shudders, attempting to give up its contents only to find itself empty. Unsuited to gentleness, she feels it settle over her like a stifling mantle as she chances a hand on his back. "Fushimi—" and that's all she gets out before her subordinate jolts up, throwing her off balance.
Suddenly she's the one on the ground, craning her head up at Fushimi as he glares down at her. He doesn't speak, only turns around and stalks out of the warehouse unnoticed by his comrades. Seri stands before they can notice her crouched on the floor. It's so easy to fall back into the role of uncompromising second-in-command that it almost scares her.
v
The Captain is gone. Seri discovers this when she raps on the door of his office the customary three times before knocking it open with her shoulder, reports fresh from the printer still warm in her hands. She takes a deep breath and closes the door. Munakata never fails to be in his office during the two hours of the day when he receives visitors, but she waits another half an hour anyways before knocking again.
When he's still not there, she raises the alarm. SCEPTER 4 bustles with the effort to track him, and she bites her lip as she oversees the team.
"Lieutenant! We found him," Akiyama calls not five minutes later. "He's in the building."
"Good. Which room?"
The young man sighs, burying a hand in his bangs in an uncharacteristically hesitant motion. "Um…"
She pushes past him to look at his monitor, and groans as her brain kicks into gear imagining various ways to explain the scenario. "I'll handle it. Shut this all down and tell everyone to resume normal operation," she tells Akiyama instead.
They've hardly had enough time, what with everything going on, to repair the damage Suoh Mikoto caused to the underground prisons when he broke (more like strode) out. Seri casts a baleful glance at the wrecked staircase before leaping down it, then steps around the splintered floorboards down to what used to be the Red King's cell. The locking mechanism has been smashed to pieces, so she's forced to stop clear in front of the debris.
Munakata doesn't look up from his cross-legged position on the cell's floor as he fingers a stray puzzle piece. Seri is used to this lack of eye contact, although she's accustomed to expecting it from across the desk in his office.
"Of all the places to find you in," she says, "I didn't expect you'd choose one with so much sentimental value."
"How unfortunate of me to be on the receiving end of that disdaining tone for once," the Blue King muses. He's nearly done with his puzzle. Its scene of sakura blossoms next to a lake is incongruously bright compared to their surroundings. "I see it's not for nothing that the Red King's second-in-command gave you that nickname."
"It's all about the Red King, isn't it?"
Munakata glances at her sharply.
"I'm sorry, sir." She straightens to attention. "But the men are worried. Do you intend to return to your office, or should I tell them you're inspecting the cells for damage?"
"I will return momentarily." Munakata places the last piece in place, surveys the completed puzzle without any particular expression, and then upends the entire construction. Seri winces as the puzzle comes apart. Munakata painstakingly begins to turn the pieces back over, and begins to reassemble it.
"Sir, if you need me to take over some of your duties, please let me know. With the Red King's death and the HOMRA massacre so recent, I and the team would more than understand if—"
"No, Awashima-kun, that will not be necessary." When she lingers, Munakata shoots her another slow, piercing glance. "That will be all. Return to your post."
"Yes, sir!" She turns on her heel, marching out of the cell. It's not that she's entirely unused to his quirks, but she misses the days when her captain's rare moments of scorn were limited to looking askance at her desserts.
v
"I don't know what to do, Izumo."
"Hmm?" The bartender looks up from polishing a glass. "About what, Seri-chan?"
The silence of the bar is heartwrenching. It's midnight, and all of Izumo's boys should be here, laughing and swigging the cheapest beer he could afford to waste on them. It was that silence that brought her in.
"The Captain… and Fushimi-kun." Slowly, she traces a finger around the rim of her margarita glass, sweeping up the rock salt before dipping her finger in her mouth. "The captain's working himself to death, and does nothing but lock himself in his office and put together his puzzles otherwise. Fushimi-kun's more on edge than ever, to the extent that the others are beginning to be afraid to approach him. He barely listens to me, especially since the captain's never around anymore. I want to help them, but…"
She knows how selfish it is of her to ramble on about her comrades when Izumo no longer has any to turn to at all, but she can't help it. The salt on her finger seems to remind her that she hasn't tasted the blood of her own teammates, or shed tears over them.
When she finishes, she expects him to say something snarky or irreverent, but when she looks up, he's not smiling at all.
"Can't understand their grief, huh?" Izumo puts down the glass, settling it neatly between the others in a cabinet. "Maybe if I died, you would get it."
He disappears into the bar's storeroom. Seri stands up, swallowing against the warmth in her throat, and puts on her coat.
v
After hours, the headquarters' main room ought to be empty, the men in their dorms and the computer monitors all off. Seri isn't surprised to see a single lamp still lit, and Fushimi at his usual desk.
His glasses are off, and he's cleaning his throwing knives with a rag. Seri walks up to him, her steps slow and deliberate, and pointedly places a hand on the table.
He continues polishing a knife a moment longer than would be considered polite, then looks up.
"You weren't at dinner tonight," she says flatly, surveying the long shadows cradled in the hollows of his cheeks.
"No, I wasn't."
"Fushimi-kun…" She sighs. "You should go to bed. Tomorrow is a busy day and—"
"Is this about the reports? I told you, I'll have them ready by tomorrow morning." His eyes filter back down to his blades. Seri feels more annoyance at the low, crackling quality of his voice than the casual way he brushes her off. Where is that rich, not-altogether-sane lilt that creeps into his words whenever he faces off against HOMRA? At the moment, she would give anything to hear that intonation.
"No, it isn't about the reports. Actually, Fushimi-kun, I'm offering you a few days off." When he doesn't respond, she presses on. "Eat. Get some sleep. I need you back fully rested and present."
"Why? Is my current work unsatisfactory?"
"No. However, with the recent events concerning HOMRA, I'm concerned about your ability to concentrate at work."
It is the wrong thing to say. Seri knows it as soon as she says it, because Fushimi's eyes narrow and his fingers, still holding a knife, twitch. Without his glasses, his eyes look sharper than the blade in his hand. "And you know so much about it, don't you, Lieutenant?"
"Fushimi-kun, I'm just telling you that I realize the loss of your former king and clansmen is no easy matter. If the captain died—"
"You'd die with him, I'm sure." There it is, that dangerous and sublime darkness to his voice, laden with sarcasm. Fushimi stands, picking up his glasses with two fingers and slipping them back on. "Such a devoted right hand. You can pretend I'm him."
Then he hooks one hand around her waist and slams her against the office wall, and she curses herself for freezing. He doesn't kiss her. He licks her at the base of her collarbone while his hands make a cursory trace across her breasts before settling at her belt, and she has to repress a shiver as her skirt crumples to the floor.
Almost without thinking, she registers the feeling of bones barely clothed by skin when she grasps the sides of his stomach. Then his hand slips down further, and she finds herself clutching him in an attempt to drown out the warmth clenching her core.
The harder she claws into him, the wider he smiles. She knows that SCEPTER 4's third-in-command is a bit of a masochist, that he doesn't really want her body, only her hate, and that only to hate himself. She knows that Munakata's way of dealing with him is to politely rebuff his attempts at alienating himself with kindness, but she isn't sure if she can muster that, especially as he enters her with such force that she cries out and sees blue dance across the insides of her eyelids. It hurts. But she doesn't tell him to stop.
When they're done, sprawled in an ungainly heap across the office carpet, Fushimi doesn't linger. He gathers up the scattered pieces of his uniform and slips them back on without ceremony. It seems so strange and unbefitting that she pulls him back down. "You can stay, if you want."
"Is that what this is all about? Feeling pity for the poor traitor? That's a laugh." And he does laugh, such a soft and cruel and broken sound that she feels tears gather in her eyes. "Thanks for the time off, Lieutenant. I'm feeling quite refreshed now."
He eyes her greedily in a manner that suggests it's not her naked body that has satisfied him so much as her tears, then gathers his knives from his desk and sweeps out of the office, extinguishing the lamp as he goes.
Seri's hands tremble as she collects her garments. She shouldn't be the one crying. After all that's happened, what right does she have to the tears she's about to shed?
v
Munakata doesn't answer her knocking on his door again, but this time Seri's gotten used to her captain's lack of response. She shoulders open the door without losing hold of the files in her arms.
The Blue King is sitting on the floor of his office instead of at his desk. What startles Seri is not the customary half-finished puzzle in front of him but the presence of at least five other uncompleted puzzles scattered around the rest of the room. It's not like her king to focus on more than one at once.
Her heels click distinctly as she approaches him. Like last time, he does not look up at her.
"Would you care to explain why you have interrupted me?" He pushes up his glasses, twirling a puzzle piece in his right hand. "My spare time is so limited these days."
"These are the files you requested." She drops them off at his feet. "But I also wanted to speak with you."
"I'm listening," Munakata replies, although his distant tone implies otherwise.
Seri clears her throat. "Sir, if I may speak plainly…?"
"I should hope that doesn't imply what I think it does. Namely, that your unanticipated entry and disturbance, in contrast, was meant to be polite."
"Yes, sir." She swallows. "The men are talking. They're beginning to wonder about the authority of a king who won't come out of his office to command them directly. It wouldn't hurt to make an appearance soon, instead of sending me to report your orders every time."
"I more than trust your capability in handling such matters in my stead, Awashima-kun."
"That's not the point, sir." She sighs, hands tightening behind her back. "They expect you to be worn down after the strain of killing another king. Moreover, they know that you're… torn over Suoh Mikoto's death. I'm just saying that you don't have to distance yourself. You can trust us a little more."
"Forgive me for my bluntness, Awashima-kun, but it seems only fair for me to repay your honesty with mine." Munakata still has not looked up at her the entire conversation, and he continues to study his puzzle. "The matter of Suoh Mikoto is not something that you could understand, nor is it something I wish you to."
Seri clenches her jaw.
"Take those with you back to the storeroom. I'm done with them." Munakata points to a stack of puzzle boxes near the window. If he notices her lack of a "yes, sir" as she walks over to the pile, he doesn't comment.
Exiting the office, she runs into Fushimi. With a mock bow of gallantry, he takes the stack of puzzle boxes out of her arms, smirks, and heads off.
v
"I can't do it, Izumo."
The latter looks up from his inventory sheets. His "Do what, Seri-chan?" sounds more weary than curious or affectionate.
She drains the rest of her martini, scooping up the bean paste residue with a finger. "I can't help them. They're going to destroy themselves, and I can't stop them."
"Maybe you weren't meant to."
"What do you mean?" She's getting drunk, drunk enough to slip behind the bar and wrap her arms around Izumo's back.
He sighs. Gently, he disentangles her arms from around his waist. "Go home, Seri-chan. Get some sleep. You're too beautiful to be hanging around a seedy bar with a lonely old man late at night."
Though he's perfectly kind when saying it, she imagines she can see it in his eyes, a restrained indignation at her presumptuousness. You didn't lose your king, it says plainly. Stop your bitching.
He helps her into her coat and walks her out with a kiss to the cheek, and she finds herself hating his gentleness as much as Munakata's silence or Fushimi's cruelty.
v
"Oh? You came back for more?" Fushimi leans back in his chair, his bored drawl as casual as if he had just asked her if he was done for the day. "The captain ignore you again or something?"
Seri looks around quickly to ascertain that the room is empty, then strides towards him. Fushimi's grin widens as she nears, up until she slaps him hard across the face. She twists her hand at the last moment so that she draws blood at his cheekbone.
He exhales in the pained facsimile of a laugh, touching his cheek with one hand and straightening his glasses with the other. His long fingers curled against the seeping cuts make a strangely compelling sight, and Seri hopes she isn't becoming infected by his fascination with flesh and blood.
"That's it…" Fushimi breathes, slow and luxurious. "Do you hate me?"
"Yes."
"I'll accept your hate, even if you're not him."
She doesn't ask who he means, instead launching into a biting tirade where she denounces everything from his work ethic to his lack of respect to his traitorous past. It's uncharacteristically sadistic of her, completely true, and exactly what Fushimi wants to hear. His eyes brighten back into sapphire shards. A blush even comes to his cheeks independent of the angry red of her slap, coloring them a lovely, dusky rose. Seri thinks about how in another lifetime, she might just have played the game of seduction with this young man, been entranced by his slender frame and low murmuring voice.
Abruptly, Fushimi stands and wraps his arms around her, shivering with arousal. She lets him pull her to the ground and bites his lip when he kisses her. The tint of resignation in his eyes behind the excitement makes her sigh. She couldn't be kind to him, and now that Yata Misaki is dead and Munakata is as good as lost to them, she wonders if anyone else will.
And in giving up, she finally knows the honey-sweet taste of self-destruction, the likes of which Mikoto must have given himself up to in his pursuit of revenge. She can almost forgive the Red King his indulgence.
v
This time, she doesn't bother knocking on Munakata's door. Nor does she come equipped with any pretense of paperwork to hand off or orders to receive.
He looks up at her with his brow furrowed in annoyance, but she doesn't give him time to question her. He's working on a puzzle of a lakeside cabin that is about halfway completed. Seri smiles, knowing that her silence has caught his attention for once.
She sits down next to her captain and picks up a puzzle piece.
"May I join you, sir?"
v v v
Kind of ridiculously obsessed with SCEPTER 4 (but mostly Fushimi and his lovely lovely voice) at the moment. Thanks for reading and please leave your thoughts!