(Originally posted on ao3 in February.)
When Shun is taken into custody his clothes are taken away from him and put through the wash.
He doesn't like it. The coat and bandana and all the rest have the grit and stains of life as a rebel, steeped in the smell of smoke and desperate hideaways. The LDS outfit he's been provided with in the meantime is crisp and new and highly off-putting. It feels too foreign. It feels like he's having some of his own agency taken away, being forced to conform to the demands of that Akaba Reiji.
One of those demands being, "The room you're being put in has a shower, please use it." Which is good. Shun takes a perverse pleasure in bringing polished professional Akaba into contact with his unwashed self, trailing the grit of war into his sterilized establishment. Let him see that while he sits and plots behind a desk, the Resistance is fighting where it matters: out on the battlefield, where it's messy and ugly and real and there are no showers.
The room they put him in is neat and comfortable and Shun hates it. He finds two hidden cameras, which he disables using the refined and subtle technique of hacking at the wires with the sharp edge of the desk lamp, and then lets himself fall onto the too-soft bed, thinking about nothing and everything. He's wearing the boxers and undershirt supplied to him by Leo Corp., but not the uniform pants or jacket. He's not going to give them that satisfaction.
Several hours later his clothes are returned to him in a neatly folded stack that smells clean and warm. He shakes them open, examining them. They're soft to the touch; and most of the stains are gone, but some of them - the ones from blood and oil - still remain, faded into the fabric. The people at Leo Corp. haven't bothered to stitch up the tears and ragged edges. Good.
After a moment's reluctance he decides to take the shower anyway. The soap smells chemical sweet so he doesn't touch it, just lets the warm water relax his muscles. Not too much though. He can't let himself be too soft, he has to stay on guard. He thinks of Ruri, and how she'd walk into the shiny clean bathroom as if into some mysterious land, touching the soft towels and smelling the soap. She'd have no problem scrubbing the stains of war off herself. She would tell Shun lightly that it's a good thing to get cleaned up, that he's not a little kid playing in the mud anymore. He'd remind her he's older than her, and she'd laugh and -
Shun realizes he's been standing still letting the water run over him. His chest aches. He shuts off the water and steps into a towel that is white and clean and fluffy like everything else.
When he emerges from the bathroom his clothes are still strewn over the bed, dark and utilitarian and soft with the wear they've been through. So is the crisp LDS uniform that he knows Akaba wants him to wear. No matter if they've given him his own clothes back; Shun can feel that he is expected to walk out of the room looking like a lackey of Leo Corp. He can taste it in the polished floors outside and in the wet bathroom tiles and in the cameras lying in the trash can. Akaba's territory, Akaba's rules.
He stares at both outfits for a while, his throat knotting, then throws the LDS uniform against the wall and pulls on his old clothes. They're laundry-machine fresh and they smell clean. They feel clean, too, against his newly washed skin. He shifts in them uncomfortably, feeling fresh-scrubbed and vulnerable.
There's a knock at the door, which opens before he has a chance to reply. It's one of the corporation's lackeys in a crisp and polished suit, serious and businesslike as usual. Shun seems to remember Akaba referring to him by name earlier. Nakajima? Was that it? "President Akaba will see you now."
Shun feels a scowl coming on. Not even a request. A statement of already-assumed fact.
Nakajima looks at him and frowns slightly. "You didn't wear the uniform we supplied you with?"
"No," says Shun, keeping a close eye on his face, "I thought that since you'd given me my own clothes back, I'd just wear those." He can't help but add snidely, "After all, I wouldn't want to impinge on your hospitality any further."
He notes the way the corners of the man's mouth tighten, just slightly, and takes a fierce pride in that fact.
"Follow me -" begins Nakajima, but Shun doesn't wait for him to finish his sentence before brushing past him into the hallway.
"Take me to Akaba," he orders. Orders. It's petty but he enjoys the feeling of control it gives back to him.
Nakajima stares at him levelly, as though gauging how to react, then says, "This way, sir."
And Shun follows. Their footsteps echo down the white shiny hallways, and it's foreign territory and Shun feels clean-scrubbed and new like a chick just come out of its shell, no longer protected by the ingrained war-pressed feeling of stains and grit. But he's in his own clothes, his own skin. He can do this.