Notes: I started this months ago, intended as a short little drabble-y thing. 50,000 words and a couple near- rewrites later, here we are.
In the end, they told the story in scars.
–
I. burns and an empty hand
"Misaki, hurry up now." His mother tapped his arm as she passed by, grabbing a coat from off the doorknob and throwing it over his brother Minoru's shoulders.
"I'm not going," Yata stated, glaring at the duffel bag in front of him as if its very presence was a personal affront. "We can't just run, Mom! What if soldiers come, we need to-"
"That's exactly why we need to leave, Misaki." His mother's voice was clipped and exasperated. "It's not safe here anymore, you know that."
Yata crossed his arms and turned his head away, chewing on his lip in irritation. His sister Megumi tugged on his sleeve and he lightly pushed her away.
He didn't understand how things had changed so quickly. The town had been quiet once, Yata living a normal life with his mother and two half-siblings after his birth father had died falling off a roof drunk and his mother remarried, his little brother and sister born shortly afterwards. It wasn't maybe quite the way Yata had thought it would be – he felt a little out of place, sometimes, but his stepfather had been nothing but kind to him from the beginning and it even wasn't so bad being called 'big brother' sometimes.
The war had ruined everything, creeping up unseen like a thief in the night. Yata's stepfather had enlisted in the army and been sent off to a satellite base somewhere near the capital. He'd sent them letters at first, like clockwork every two weeks, and his mother had been optimistic about how the war would surely be over soon and he would come home. Then one day the letters had abruptly stopped without any warning at all, and they'd never heard from his stepfather since.
On top of that, word soon came of an upheaval in the Armies of the United Colors. The Green Division had defected, their captain attempting to assassinate the Golden General who led the army. The Greens had joined forces with the invading Colorless army shortly afterward and together they had begun slowly extending their influence over the rest of the country.
The town where Yata lived was mostly unremarkable, on the border near the sea, but there was a small base belonging to the Golden Regiment housed in the center of town. Beyond that, two of the other nearby towns had already been occupied and Yata had woken up more than once hearing the sounds of the Green Division's war planes flying overhead.
That had been when Yata's mother had finally decided that they couldn't stay here anymore.
In short, they were running. Yata had already argued with her about twice – the United Colors were heroes, after all, and what kind of trust did that show to run away in the face of danger like this. If anything Yata thought they should all stay and fight, do what they could to defeat the enemy. His mother had not been impressed by his argument, noting that children were not allowed in the army and for good reason, and besides there was Minoru and Megumi to think of. Yata supposed she had a point, but it still rankled.
"Misaki, if you don't finish packing-" His mother's voice cut off sharply and Yata looked up.
"Mom?" Something in her expression made him nervous. His mother gestured at him to hush and that was when Yata heard the sound of a plane roaring overhead. Yata slid off his chair and ran for the window, staring out. Off in the distance he could see something moving through the early morning fog.
Soldiers, marching under a blank flag. The Colorless Guard.
Yata's mother grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the window.
"Mom." Yata heard the shake in his voice and his mother turned to look at him. There was a smile on her face but it was tight and false and somehow that scared him more than any soldiers or planes ever had. She grabbed hold of Megumi's hand and pressed it into his, her own hands white on Minoru's.
"Don't let go of her, Misaki." His mother stared down at him solemnly and Yata swallowed, nodding. "No matter what, don't let go of her hand."
Then she pulled open the door, and they ran.
Outside the town was already in chaos, the streets a mess of people all trying to escape through the same narrow streets. There were a handful of Golden soldiers from the base who were trying in vain to restore order but the Colorless troops were already streaming through the town, cutting down anyone in their path. Yata stumbled blindly through the streets, half-carried along by the crowd, and he pulled Megumi forward along with him.
There was a sudden hail of gunfire and Yata heard people screaming. Someone bumped into him, hard, and he could barely keep his grip on Megumi's hand. She was crying and Yata realized that he'd lost sight of his mother and Minoru.
Somehow they made it through the town gates and out into the open fields. Yata's heart was pounding in his chest and his legs ached but he kept running, all but dragging Megumi behind him.
There was the roar of a plane overhead, deafening, filling his ears and suddenly the sky went dark with smoke. Yata thought he heard Megumi scream as the fields around them burst into flames and he was thrown to the ground by the force of the blast.
He felt Megumi's hand be torn from his grip, her small nails scratching against his palm moments before everything was swallowed by darkness.
–
"Mom?" Yata blinked slowly, trying to sit up. His limbs felt heavy and someone touched a hand to his shoulder, eased him back down.
"Careful, careful. You're all right." It was a woman's voice, strained, and it suddenly reminded Yata of that tight fake smile on his mother's face before they'd run out the door.
Yata's eyes snapped open as the memories rushed back into his head.
His mother. The soldiers. Fire.
Megumi.
"Where-" A sharp pain lanced up and down his back as he sat up and Yata looked around wildly, heart pounding.
"Shh, it's all right. Here, drink." There was a woman standing in front of him with tired eyes, her clothes covered in dust and soot. All around him Yata could see cots and blankets, the air filled with quiet moans and the smell of blood and antiseptic.
A field hospital.
"It's all right, you're safe now." The words were hollow, more like an advertisement than a reassurance. "Your back is injured but you'll survive. You were one of the lucky ones."
"Where's Megumi?" Yata tried to swallow and couldn't, unable to get anything else past the lump in his throat. "A-and my mom, and Minoru! Where are-"
"Get some sleep now." The woman gave him another flat fake smile, turning around and walking away without another word. Yata didn't even turn to watch her go, staring instead down at the small red lines that were still there on his palm from where Megumi's nails had raked against the skin as her hand was torn from his.
It's all right,Yata told himself quietly. It'll be fine. Mom and Minoru and Megumi are just at another hospital. Once I'm better I'll go find them and it'll all be okay.
Even as the words went through his mind Yata knew they were lies. He wasn't going to see any of them again.
Megumi was gone, Megumi and Minoru and his mother, and even though the marks on his palm would fade Yata knew it was a scar.
II. a cellar, dark
"What's wrong, monkey? Are you afraid?" Niki laughed as he closed the door and Fushimi could hear the small click of the lock being turned. The last bit of light winked out with the shutting of the door and then Fushimi was alone in the darkness of the cellar, nursing his bruises.
Niki had pushed him down the steps into the cellar this time and Fushimi could feel the thin hairline of a cut along his lower jaw. It was bleeding slightly, sticky against his fingertips and he pulled his hand away with a grimace. The bleeding would stop soon enough so there was no point in worrying over it. It would clot eventually, turn into just another bruise and then fade. The wounds always did.
There was the muffled sound of raised voices somewhere above him and the roof shook as someone on the upper floor stamped their feet. Niki rarely made any noise at all above (all the better to allow him to sneak his way back to the cellar whenever Fushimi had started to let himself relax) and Fushimi wondered if those two had a client this late in the day, on a warm summer evening when the air smelled like a powder keg about to blow.
Niki and Kisa were arms smugglers, after all, and war was their element. Fushimi Niki gathered the weapons from places unknown, Fushimi Kisa lined up the buyers.
Fushimi Saruhiko lived in the cellar.
At least they hadn't sold him away yet, he supposed, though sometimes Fushimi imagined they might and he didn't really hate the idea of it. He had a real room somewhere in the big empty townhouse but he couldn't remember the last time he'd used it, the last time he'd slept in a real bed. Niki had always found it funny, leaving him in the cellar with the rats and the silence as his only company.
Fushimi had been afraid of the dark once. He wasn't anymore.
The commotion upstairs became louder and Fushimi scowled as he inched forward, stepping carefully to avoid running into any of the various obstacles Niki loved littering around the cellar. He stopped as his hands finally touched wood, splinters digging into his palms, and he ignored the pain as he pulled the stolen kitchen knife from his jacket.
As far as he could tell there had once been a door here, intended for deliveries. It had been poorly boarded up and Fushimi had come across it one day purely on accident, tripping over a box and hitting the wall hard with both hands. He'd begun worrying at the wood with the knife, almost as a way of passing the time. Niki always remembered to lock the main door, after all.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he finally smelled the smoke.
A fire? Fushimi took a couple steps towards the cellar door and then stopped. He could almost see the dark smoke creeping in from beneath the closed door and Fushimi realized that all of the noise above had abruptly ceased. He stumbled back towards the blocked door, eyes watering as his hands pressed against the wood.
There were no sounds above now and part of him wondered if this was somehow another one of Niki's games – set the house on fire and see if Fushimi could manage to get out on his own. Or maybe Niki and Kisa had just gotten tired of dealing with Fushimi all together and had decided to move on to another town and they simply didn't see the point of dragging him along with them.
The smoke made his eyes sting as he frantically stabbed at the wooden planks, digging his hands into the moldy wood, until he could feel blood underneath his nails. He was coughing and choking in the smoke and he wondered if he was going to die here in the dark, alone. The entire house would burn to the ground and he'd be found a charred corpse with no name, no family. Be nothing at all, right until the end.
Then the wood abruptly broke in his grasp and he pushed against the unblocked door. It resisted for only a moment before Fushimi tumbled out into open air, gasping and coughing. His eyes watered and he staggered forward blindly, not certain where he was going only that he had to get away.
His shaking legs finally gave out and Fushimi hit the ground hard. His head fell back and he took a deep breath as he stared upwards at the night sky above, dotted with stars. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to see stars.
His breathing was slowing back to normal now and Fushimi placed a hand on the nearest wall to steady himself as he tried to take stock of his surroundings. Immediately his eyes were drawn to the bright orange of flames in front of him and he realized that in his disoriented state he'd made almost a complete circle around the side streets and back alleys. He was standing in between two houses immediately opposite from his own, watching the fire as it consumed the entirety of the townhouse.
In the light of the flames he could see a squadron of soldiers standing before the front door of the house, all wearing the face covering masks that immediately marked them out as soldiers of the Green Division, and with sudden clarity Fushimi remembered a conversation he'd overheard two days prior.
"Double crossing the Golds was bad enough, is it really wise to do such things to the Green army as well?" Kisa's lip had curled imperiously as she spoke, as if the words left a bad taste in her mouth. She had been embroidering a blanket, looking for all the world like the spoiled daughter of a rich household and not a woman who sold war for a living. Fushimi had been tied to a chair at the time with a rifle pointed at his chest, primed to go off if he moved wrong. One of Niki's little games, as always. He was fifty percent certain that it wasn't loaded but that wasn't really much of a comfort.
"It's fine, it's fine!" Niki had laughed then, playing with the pistol in his hands as if it was a toy. "There's more profit in it this way, right? I thought that was what you liked."
Kisa had huffed but she hadn't disagreed either and Fushimi had ignored them both and focused on breathing lightly instead.
Clearly, the game had caught up with them at last.
Then the front door of the townhouse slammed open, two familiar figures stumbling outside. Fushimi's fingers dug into his palms and he could feel blood soaking into his sleeves even though he didn't recall being wounded.
One of the Green soldiers raised a hand.
"Fire!"
The soldiers raised their rifles as one and then the two dark shapes seemed to explode into a mess of blood and flesh. One of the soldiers approached the bodies afterward, nudging them with a foot before turning around and giving the order to throw them back into the house that was now completely engulfed in flames.
The smoke curled into the air and obscured the stars, and Fushimi laughed until he couldn't breathe.
III. a bruise from a fist (and Saruhiko)
Yata sighed and stared up at the bright sun above, trying to ignore the steady growling of his stomach. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a full meal but he was determined not to think about it. He was alive, after all, and that was what mattered.
He'd been living on the streets for about three months, as far as he could guess; the days blurred together after a while. He'd spent about a week in the field hospital waiting in vain for any sign of his family before being loaded up in a truck with all the other 'unclaimed' children and sent off to an orphanage.
The orphanage had been the worst time of all, beaten only by the day he'd lost everything he held dear. He'd been dragged off the truck and hustled into a grim-looking brick building, packed together with hundreds of other children who no one wanted. No parents ever came to take them home, only workhouses short of bodies, men checking them over like horses for sale to see who could be worked the longest before being spent. Every month or so the people in charge would herd all the kids together in a line and men would come to look at them, saying shit about 'the dignity of work' and 'supporting the army to your utmost,' but Yata hadn't been fooled. Guys like that couldn't be trusted at all and he'd known right from the start that he'd rather die than be taken away like that.
He'd tried to rally the other kids against them – there was strength in numbers after all, and Yata had been so certain that together they could actually do something about their shitty situation. Only one of the kids had even been willing to listen to him and even that guy had been too scared to do anything but quietly cheer Yata on from the shadows. In the end when Yata had finally chosen to make his escape he had made it alone, sneaking out a window and then climbing the fence in the dead of night.
After that Yata had managed to sneak his way onto a passing work truck, intending to get as far away as he could. He'd had big dreams, then, of traveling all the way to Shizume or even Mihashira to join the United Colors, to fight against the people who had taken everything from him.
Where he'd ended up instead was a small refugee town nestled in the dead zone between cities. It was within sight of the train line – Yata could see the tracks from the rooftops on the northern side of town – but the next actual station was miles away in the city. The town itself was a mix of old and new, condemned buildings and ancient warehouses side by side with newer houses that very few of the residents could actually afford. The streets were old and barely paved; almost no one who lived there owned a car and even the occasional supply or delivery truck was rare. The ammunitions factory in the center of town was constantly pouring thick black smoke out into the air that made the entire town feel like it was covered in a fine layer of ash.
Like a lot of the shabbier towns the place was also filled with street gangs and war orphans, all trying to scrabble out a living as best they could. Yata had been part of those too, at first. He'd tried his hardest, he really had. He'd figured that it couldn't be too hard to fit in. They were all in the same situation, right? They needed to look out for each other.
Instead he'd been turned out of all the gangs one by one. Too loud, too stupid, too filled with stories of heroes and talk about family.
Screw those guys though, Yata thought darkly as he walked along the edge of the road with his hands in his pockets. He was surviving, after all, and if the hand that couldn't hold onto Megumi itched sometimes it was easy to ignore, to pretend that surviving was enough.
It wasn't like he needed any of those guys anyhow, wasn't like he needed anyone. He was doing all right by himself, wasn't he? Yata kicked at a piece of trash, trying to ignore the persistent stinging of his empty stomach. If they didn't want him that just meant he didn't need them, that was all.
The sound of a blaring car horn made him look up and glance towards the road. Cars were a luxury few in the town could afford, especially with the way fuel had been rationed for the war effort, and so the sight of one - dingy and old fashioned as it was - was a rarity.
The car honked again and suddenly Yata realized what it was honking at. Right there in the middle of the road there was a skinny kid in glasses, crouched in the dust as if he was injured. He wasn't even looking at the car, just sitting there hunched and quiet as the car bore down upon him.
"Look out!" Yata's legs were moving before he could even stop to think, one hand twitching almost unconsciously. The car honked again and there was a squealing of tires as Yata and the skinny kid both tumbled back onto the sidewalk in a tangle of limbs and dirt.
"That was close," Yata said as he sat up, wincing slightly. He could tell without looking that he'd probably bruised his knees and elbows a little but nothing seemed broken so there wasn't anything to worry about. He looked over at the kid he'd just saved, who was slowly working himself into a sitting position. "You all right?"
Yata wasn't sure what exactly he'd expected – gratitude, maybe, or at least a shaky smile in return for Yata risking his life to save some kid he didn't even know from being squashed by a car. But the one thing he definitely hadn't expected was the ice cold glare the kid was giving him instead.
"Stupid brats!" The sound of a car door slamming made Yata flinch slightly. The car that had almost hit them had stopped at the side of the road and the man who got out was broad-shouldered and red-faced. "What the hell was that? That's why kids like you should be in the workhouses, not the streets!"
"Hey!" Yata jumped to his feet indignantly. "You're the one who almost killed us!"
"There's too many damn filthy kids in this town," the man said, looking at Yata as though he was nothing more than a piece of trash that had dared to fall out of a garbage can. "There's places for kids like you, you know, where you can actually be of some use to society."
Yata opened his mouth to reply and was stopped by a soft sound of a tongue click, the only warning he had before the skinny kid suddenly moved so fast and silent that Yata almost didn't realize what had happened. He saw a flash of thin wrists as the kid pushed his hands against the driver of the car for a moment and then in a single smooth motion turned and dashed away down the alley behind them.
"What the—my wallet!" The driver swore and reached for Yata. "You little thieves-"
Yata didn't wait to be caught, immediately turning and making his own escape. Behind him he could hear the man yelling for the police and in front of him he could just see the slim form of the kid in glasses, smoothly maneuvering his way through the maze of the back alleys, jumping easily over fallen trash cans and debris. Yata realized he was smiling and he couldn't seem to stop.
He didn't know why, but somehow it was the most exhilarated he'd felt in ages.
Finally the kid in the glasses slowed to a stop, breathing heavily. Yata slowed his own pace to a light trot as he carefully approached. The kid looked up at him and the glare still fixed on his face was enough to almost knock the smile from Yata's.
"Hey." Yata raised a hand in nervous greeting. The kid ignored him, straightening up as he began to dig through the wallet. "Um...you okay?"
"Don't talk to me." The kid's voice was flat and cold with a touch of arrogance and Yata's expression darkened a little.
"Is that how you talk to the guy who saved your ass?" Yata asked, crossing his arms. The kid scoffed quietly and threw the empty wallet at him.
"Who almost ruined everything, more like." The kid stuck his hands in his pockets and turned as if to walk away. "Whatever. Don't talk to me again."
"H-hey, wait a second!" Yata took a few steps after him and was stopped by another cold look. Yata couldn't help but find himself a little transfixed by how blue those eyes were, clear like ice and just as frozen, but with a spark deep inside them that was like nothing Yata had seen from any of the other kids he'd run into since losing his family. The kid gave a small derisive laugh and then turned away again, walking off into the darkness without another word.
Too loud, too stupid. Go find someone else to bother. Yata bit his lip and shook his head.
Forget that asshole. Yata picked up the empty wallet, staring at it for a moment before throwing it back in the direction the kid had come from. Well, it wasn't like they were going to see each other again anyway. There was no point in Yata bothering to think about the weird kid any more than he had to.
Still, he couldn't help but remember the color of the kid's eyes.
–
It had been nearly a week since he'd met the kid with the glasses and the air was hot and stale. Yata sat miserably against the side of a building, sweat dripping down his forehead. He'd had a run-in a couple hours earlier with one of the gangs that had kicked him out and had come away the worse for it, losing the abandoned loft that he'd been using as a room for the last month and a half. On top of that it seemed like summer had decided to come in with a vengeance and he felt like he was melting in the heat, the sun far too bright in the sky.
From not too far away he heard the screeching of tires and the honking of a car horn, and Yata looked up.
It can't be. He knew there was no reason to go look. Even if it was that person, they were strangers. There was no point in going to see what was happening.
Even so Yata found his feet moving towards the sound. He could see a small crowd gathering from across the street and Yata jogged forward, suddenly curious.
A car was stopped on the side of the street, halfway up on the curb. In the center of a group of concerned bystanders was the skinny kid with the glasses, looking a bit bruised and worse for wear. There was a large red mark on his cheek and several members of the crowd were fussing over it, touching his forehead as they checked him over for injuries.
The crowd was so focused on the bruises that no one had bothered to look down and see that the kid's hands were always moving – into pockets and purses, jewelry and wallets that appeared and disappeared under his clothes and no one seemed to notice anything at all. No one except Yata, who watched the kid's constantly moving hands with a sense of almost wonder.
It was...it was really cool, Yata couldn't help but think. Whoever that kid was it was kind of amazing, the way he planned all this, the way his hands kept moving and no one could see what he was doing at all.
"Wait a minute, my watch..." One of the members of the crowd stood and as expected the glasses kid was off like a shot into the darkness, so fast that for a moment no one even seemed to have noticed that he'd moved. Yata immediately found his legs moving to follow, nearly barreling into a couple people as the crowd scattered around him like startled crows.
He caught sight of the kid pretty easily- he was fast but Yata knew that speed was one of his strong points. As soon as he got close he reached out, hand closing over one of the kid's thin pale arms.
The kid immediately stopped and turned without so much as a moment's hesitation, a fist flashing out, and Yata couldn't quite duck under it in time. His grip was still strong on the kid's arm though and they both ended up falling to the ground together.
"Do you do that all the time? Isn't it dangerous? Hey, what's your name?" Yata's cheek hurt but it was a good hurt and he couldn't stop smiling as he leaned forward. The glasses kid glared at him again, pulling his arm away roughly as he stood.
"Why do you care?" His eyes were as cold as ever but Yata felt like he could see it almost, the flame wavering behind them, and somehow Yata couldn't stop looking at him.
"I just wanted to know. It's really smart, you know? I wouldn't have thought to do that."
"Obviously." The implication was clear but Yata ignored it as he stood, holding out one hand.
"I'm Yata Misaki." Once upon a time Yata would've withheld the given name but he didn't anymore, had stopped feeling embarrassed long ago. It was the only thing he had left that his mother had given him, after all, and he'd take a million taunts about that name and more if he could only hear her call him by it one more time.
"I don't care." The kid was brushing dust off himself as if he couldn't stand having it on his clothes and Yata couldn't help but think it was a bit ridiculous, when he was sure that this kid didn't have a warm and clean place to stay any more than Yata himself did.
"Come on, you could at least give me your name."
"Why? We aren't friends." The kid clicked his tongue quietly as he turned to walk away. "I don't have any interest in you whatsoever. Leave me alone."
"H-hey, wait!" Yata reached for him again and the kid pulled his arm away, annoyed. "I just...wanted to talk to you, that's all." He swallowed hard, sudden visions of a warm household warring with the memories of trying to fit in with every street gang he came across, taunts and mockery as each one told him how much he didn't fit in.
Too loud. Too stupid. What did you expect?
It wasn't the same, though, not at all the same as the cold glare on the glasses kid's face. Yata had really thought that he did fit in with those people – had been proud of it, had been certain that these were his friends and vowed to protect them with all his strength – and it hadn't been until the very day they told him to leave that he'd even known there was anything wrong at all.
The kid in front of him was rude, sure, and kind of an asshole but...at least he was honest about it.
That's just stupid of me to care about, isn't it? Yata let his hand fall back and the glasses kid gave him a searching look for a moment before turning away again. I really am such an idiot...this guy doesn't even want anything to do with me and I'm happy because at least he says it out loud.
"I'm kinda pathetic, huh?" Yata said quietly, falling back against the wall of the alley.
"Looks like it." The kid shrugged as he walked away, not even looking back at Yata. "Stop following after me."
"Yeah...sorry." Yata ducked his head and tried to force his limbs to move from the wall, ignoring the way his back suddenly throbbed and his palm burned.
"Well, well...there you are, huh, Fushimi?" A shadow fell across the alley and they both looked up.
A group of teenagers stood in the mouth of the alley, dressed in ragged clothes and smirking. The leader was smoking a cigarette that he put out with his shoe as he stepped forward.
"Ah..." Yata's eyes widened as he recognized them – he'd been part of their gang when he'd first come to the city, spent about half a week as their errand boy before being unceremoniously kicked out to fend for himself.
"You hanging around with this guy now, Yata?" The leader – Yamata, Yata remembered his name – sneered at him and the rest of the gang behind him laughed. "Seriously, you don't know when to quit, huh? Well, if you're smart you'll step aside. Our business is with Fushimi."
The glasses kid – Fushimi, apparently – fixed the three of them with the same frigid stare he'd given Yata, not looking nervous or fearful in the least despite being outnumbered.
"We've already warned you once, right, Fushimi?" Yamata reached out and grabbed a handful of Fushimi's collar, roughly pulling him closer.
"H-hey!" Yata took a step forward almost automatically and Yamata shot him a glare.
"Stay out of this, shrimp, if you know what's good for you." Yamata turned his focus back on Fushimi, who still had that same flat look on his face despite everything. "We told you last time you pulled your little trick, if you're going to do that shit in our territory you better be willing to pay us for it."
"That's not fair!" Yata yelled before he could stop himself. "Fushimi did that by himself, right? He doesn't owe you assholes anything!"
"I told you to stay out of this." Yamata turned to glare at Yata, half-dragging Fushimi with him as he did, and Yata's hands clenched into fists. "You should know better than anyone how the world works, Yata. The gangs own these streets. You pathetic little orphans owe us for keeping the police off your backs. Unless you'd rather we let you be packed up and sent back to one of the stinking orphanages?" He laughed. "Like the workhouses would have any use for a shrimpy kid like you-"
He cut off with a sudden howl of pain and Yata found himself staring blankly as Yamata dropped Fushimi heavily to the ground. Yamata's hand was bleeding, and there was a small knife visible in Fushimi's hand.
"You're gonna pay for that you little-" Yamata reached for Fushimi and without a moment's hesitation Yata lowered his head and charged.
There was a flurry of fists and blood and steel after that, so fast that Yata could barely keep track of what he was doing and who he was fighting, only just able to keep one eye on the thin quick form of Fushimi darting in and out of the fight with a knife in his hand. Yata was bruised and bleeding by the time he spotted an opening, and he didn't even hesitate this time as he grabbed Fushimi's arm and dragged him forward, the two of them running side by side out of the alley with the sounds of yelling and cursing chasing after them.
Eventually they found themselves out of the back alleys and into the main streets, passersby staring at them with thinly disguised disapproval as they leaned against a building breathing hard, heartbeats pounding.
Fushimi was the first to move, pushing himself off the wall and then resting for a moment with his hands on his knees, shaking slightly and clearly still winded even as he tried to walk away.
"Hey!" Yata called after him and this time Fushimi turned. Yata smiled and held out a fist. "We showed those guys, huh?"
Fushimi stared at his fist blankly for a long moment, as if not certain what his response should be. Finally he turned away with another quiet click of his tongue. Yata let his arm fall back to his side, deflated.
"Fushimi Saruhiko." The words were hushed and Yata looked up abruptly. "...My name. Fushimi Saruhiko."
His voice was still as cold as ever and he didn't bother to turn around. Even so, Yata couldn't help but smile.
"Fushimi...Saruhiko, huh?"
IV. a deep red rash (and Misaki)
It was hot.
Fushimi could feel his skin burning as he struggled for a breath. The air was thin and smelled like sickness, and it made his head spin.
It was no surprise, really, that illness spread so easily in a town full of war orphans and poor families packed together like sardines in small apartments, where the streets were piled with garbage and there was always that constant smell of smoke in the air. It was only to be expected that an epidemic would hit eventually.
Fushimi rolled over onto his side, curling up under the single ragged blanket even though he was still sweating. He was lying on a bed in an old schoolhouse that had been turned into a makeshift hospital, the windows boarded over and painted with red signs. There were a handful of nurses who had volunteered to tend to the sick and Fushimi could hear them sometimes, talking amongst themselves in hushed tones and calling it a quarantine. A necessary action in order to keep the epidemic from decimating the whole town.
Fushimi knew better, of course. He hadn't managed to live this long on his own by being stupid and he'd tried his best to stay away from the main streets once he'd realized he was getting sick. He'd been caught in the end trying to steal a sack of ice from the butcher shop, snatched by a police officer wearing gloves over his hands and then turned over to the doctors. They'd told him to relax, that they were going to take care of him.
Lies, all of it, and Fushimi had known it from the moment they dragged him in. They were being packed in here to die, all of them poor and useless and powerless. The rich could afford to travel to the nearest city and take the train there to a real hospital. The rest of them were only collateral damage and Fushimi had no illusions about his chances of walking out of this place alive.
"Does it hurt, little monkey?" Niki's face was dancing in front of his eyes and Fushimi shuddered, tried to wave it away. He felt someone holding down his limbs, keeping him still as he thrashed about wildly. Niki stayed where he was, laughing.
It hurt, and Fushimi gasped for breath again. Someone poured water down his throat, cold, and he felt a hand on his forehead. Fushimi pulled his head away, eyes still closed.
Hot. It was too hot.
"Poor little monkey." Niki was still there at the foot of the bed, watching him with half-lidded eyes. "Going to die all alone and everyone will forget you ever existed. We forgot you existed too." He smirked. "Or maybe we just wanted to leave you to burn."
Shut up. Fushimi wanted to yell but his throat was too dry to speak. He didn't need a hallucination to tell him things he already knew. He didn't need a hallucination to tell him that he was going to die alone and weak and forgotten, as though his existence had never mattered in the first place.
He wondered if that idiot would remember him, at least.
It wasn't like Fushimi cared much, about Yata Misaki. The idiot had been following him around for nearly a month now, acting as if they were friends. Which was ridiculous because Fushimi didn't have friends, had never had friends. He'd lived this long on his own and he didn't intend to change that now.
But it wasn't so bad either, fighting back to back with Yata against some of the other street gangs. Yata was a loudmouthed moron but he was good with a punch and he always followed any orders Fushimi gave him. Fushimi wondered if Yata had even noticed that he'd disappeared or if he'd just assumed that Fushimi had moved on or died.
Died. Fushimi gave a choking laugh and he heard someone moan off to his right. Well, he would be dead soon, so it would be a good enough assumption. It wasn't like it mattered anyway. They wouldn't see each other again, either way.
"Are you going to cry?" Niki laughed at him again. There was blood dripping from Niki's forehead and his skin was black with burns, fire licking at his back and shoulders. Fushimi kicked off the blanket and pressed his head against the pillow, damp with sweat (not tears, never tears, because he didn't cry anymore, hadn't cried in years).
Someone put the blanket back over his shoulders and smoothed his hair, pushing it away from his eyes.
He couldn't remember what day it was. Maybe that was why he was still burning, because he'd never made it out of that cellar in the first place. Maybe he was still in the dark, unable to find the way out, and everything else he'd made up, a final dream before dying.
"You're crying again," Niki said idly, leaning on the edge of the bed. He was there all the time now, watching and smiling. Fushimi wondered if he should've changed his name, if that would have helped at all. "Poor pathetic little monkey. If you'd come out of the front door with the rest of us you'd be better off." He smiled, teeth like bullets, and a whimper escaped Fushimi's lips.
More water, soothing on his parched throat. A hand placed a wet cloth on his forehead again, gentle, and Fushimi wondered if he was making up phantoms again, because when the nurses bothered with him their hands were always cold and clinical, treating him like just another notch in the funeral ledger, another body to eventually be buried.
It pissed him off, that thought, and Fushimi pulled away from the gentle hand, the cloth falling from his forehead. He didn't need kindness, didn't need care. He was going to die here uselessly, not having accomplished anything at all, and so he didn't need anyone's pity.
"Come on, Fushimi, hold still." There was a voice in his ears, hands trying to roll him onto his back and placing the cloth back over his eyes. Dimly Fushimi thought he recognized it.
"You have to get better, you know. I—I'm not gonna go anywhere until you feel better, okay?"
Fushimi laughed quietly as his eyes closed. He really must have been hallucinating again, because that voice had sounded almost like Yata.
There was a dark tunnel ahead of him, and silence. Fushimi felt hot but that might only have been because of the smell of smoke in the air and the flames licking at his feet. The walls of the tunnel were close and the ceiling was low and Fushimi crawled forward on his hands and knees.
It was dark, and there were no stars.
There was a monster behind him though, a hulking beast like a lion and when it opened its mouth and roared more flames chased after him, scorched his heels, burned the bottoms of his feet. He couldn't breathe but he crawled forward anyway, desperate, grasping.
Niki's laughter was behind him then, riding the back of the monster. Kisa's eyes were gazing coldly at him from the dark and the way in front of him was littered with dried white bones. He kept moving, climbed over them, small shards of bone scraping at his skin. The monster was still there. It was still following him.
The cellar was completely dark – no light, no light, not a single star, and even the fire behind him didn't reflect at all – and he couldn't see now, couldn't move forward. Fushimi scrambled at the wall until his hands bled and still there was no way out, no way out. He was about to be devoured, and there was no way out.
And then-
"Don't die, Fushimi!"
A voice he knew, even though he couldn't place it. But the wall crumbled in front of him and then the floor dropped away and he was falling into open sky, falling, falling-
Fushimi sat up with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat. His heart was pounding and he swayed dizzily for a moment, trying to figure out where he was.
The old schoolhouse. Beds on the floor, people coughing and sick, some with sheets thrown over their heads. Red markings on the boarded up walls and bad air all around.
And curled up next to his bed with a mask strapped loosely over his mouth and gloves on his hands, Yata Misaki, fast asleep but still holding tightly to one of Fushimi's clammy hands. He stirred at Fushimi's movement, rubbing his eyes and tugging the mask down as he looked around for a moment.
He spotted Fushimi, then, and his face lit up so abruptly that Fushimi felt like he was outside that burning house again, looking up at a million stars.
"Fushimi!" Yata was immediately there next to him, helping him stay upright as one hand pressed against his forehead. "How do you feel? Hey, do you need some water, I can call a nurse..."
"What are you doing here?" The words felt thick in his mouth but the pain that had been constant in his chest seemed to be fading.
"What the hell do you think I'm doing here, you idiot?" Yata's face was wet and Fushimi could feel his heart suddenly beating harder, skin tingling slightly in a way that was just like the fever and yet somehow entirely different. "You never showed up at our usual spot and then I heard they brought you here and I—I was really worried, you know!"
"You're not sick," Fushimi said blankly. His brain was still moving sluggishly, trying to catch up, and somehow he thought that even if his mind had been working right he still wouldn't be able to understand this.
"Ah, well...I kinda volunteered?" Yata laughed sheepishly. "It was the only way they'd let me see you, so..."
"You idiot." His voice was a hoarse croak and Yata leaned forward in sudden concern, trying to make him lie back down. "This isn't some common cold. You could die in here!"
"Yeah, that's what the nurses said," Yata said quietly, looking a bit sad for some reason that Fushimi couldn't grasp. "But I don't get sick very often. It's been ages since I last had a cold or anything! And anyway..." He shifted nervously. "Well...I couldn't let you be here alone, right?"
Fushimi felt his breath catch, hands shaking as they clasped the sweat-soaked sheets beneath him.
"I'll go get you some more water, all right? So...rest a little." Yata smiled at him again, warm, sincere, and Fushimi could only stare at him as he ran off through the cluster of sickbeds and patients.
It didn't make any sense, not at all. Fushimi wondered if maybe he was still in the clutches of fever, if that was why it felt so hot in his chest. It was like Yata's words had made a scar on him somewhere, deep and unseen and almost painful.
It was like he was in that dark tunnel still, crawling forward towards the bright light of Yata's smile, and somehow Fushimi couldn't bring himself to stop reaching for it.