you learn in 7th grade
that people are made of stardust.
but what if
some people were more star than dust?
.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.
He spends that evening surrounded by dusty paper and old method books, the smell of old glue sticking to the inside of his nose.
The smell brings back vivid memories of travel and hotel rooms, of Mizuchi and his father, and after an hour of scavenging he finally finds what he's looking for. Smoothing out the doggy-eared pages, Yato flips through the notebook, each page flashing past with a 'fwip' and a crinkle. There's things glued inside: cut-out chunks of sheet music, lines of composer's pieces.
A photograph.
Mizuchi is solemn besides him, her viola limp at her side, and he is bright eyed with an award in one hand and his violin in the other. His father's thumb is in the shot, a blurry tan smudge in the bottom of the photo. A startling slice of white catches his eyes, and Yato lingers on it.
Bandages, peeking out from under his sleeves. Even in faded print, they're still stark and ugly against the black fabric of his tuxedo jacket. The corner of his mouth twitches in to a grim smile. The bandages had only chafed the wounds more; he remembers rubbing them wistfully in the car before the performance. His father had joked and said he'd drawn his arms before his appearance, and they had no time to wash it off.
He supposes those words were just as good a coverup as the bandages were.
Yato rips that page out and puts the notebook next to his stack of collected method books.
.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.
Yukine doesn't show up. Yato keeps the practice books in the front pocket of his violin case, just in case.
.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.
"Don't fuck up the register while I'm gone, smartass."
Yato slouches on the counter stool he's sitting on, propping his chin in his palm. "You should be telling your fiancee that. She's got the worst luck when it comes to money."
Daikoku thumps him in the temple with his middle finger, and Yato rubs at the minor hurt indignantly as he disappears into the break room. The back door opening and closing lets him know he and Kofuku are now the only ones in the diner, and with a sigh, Yato slumps further down onto the counter. The kid didn't show up, and now his work day was going to be spent sitting idly in front of a register. Great.
Business was slow, as it always is on Sunday nights, and he begins to contemplate the idea of never seeing a human face again when the bell jingles.
Sitting up to look across the shop, he freezes when he sees brown hair. A pink scarf comes into view next, and Yato fidgets. Maybe she wouldn't recognize him. Not many people remembered his face anyway, he was easily forgettable, especially when the only interesting thing he did was play violin on sidewalks.
The girl is pulling out her wallet when she makes her way to the counter. Yato sits rigidly, hoping maybe if he was still enough she would look right through him. It worked for zebras, when they froze in tall grass and waited for the lion to pass, why wouldn't it work for him?
The girl seems more like a domesticated cat than a lioness, but he supposes the metaphor was flawed before he noticed that, anyway.
She glances up a little bit as she brings out her wallet (some cutesy thing with cartoon kittens on it,) and Yato notices her nails are pink, just like her scarf.
"A slice of the coconut creme cake, please-" She doesn't look up all the way, too busy grabbing coins (she was obviously an exact-change kind of girl,) and he hears Kofuku burst through the kitchen doors.
"Hiyorin! I was beginning to think you weren't going to come today!" The girl (Hiyorin? Hiyori? Which was it again?) looks up wildly, and as Kofuku leans to grab her for a hug over the counter, coins from her wallet go spilling. They clatter and clang against the wood and scatter across the floorboards, and Yato flinches as the third one hits the ground.
Hiyori doesn't seem to be paying attention, a little preoccupied with something else, and Yato realizes with a start that the 'something else' was him. She snaps out of it and leans to stop a runaway coin before it rolls off the counter, and Yato jumps into action, ducking to grab the ones that went over the edge.
The five yen coins feel heavy in his hand as he gives them back, and she tucks them back into her wallet. Kofuku peers over Hiyori's shoulder. "Oopsies, I guess my bad luck is extra bad today."
Yato clears his throat, mouth surprisingly dry. "You wanted the coconut creme cake right?" She nods and Kofuku announces that she'll go get it, disappearing back behind the kitchen doors. The two remaining people are left in an awkward silence, and Yato puts her money in the register, not paying attention to where he was putting the bills and coins.
"You're that guy I pushed out of the way of a motorcycle." She says bluntly, breaking the silence, and Yato makes a face down at the register drawer. Obviously she was not one to beat around the bush.
"Yeah, you found me." He sighs. The bush was thoroughly beaten, and he was fucked. "Is your arm okay?"
She absentmindedly touches her left arm at the elbow, as if she's surprised he noticed at all. "It's fine- just fine actually. It was a minor dislocation, my parents are just worrisome so they made me keep it in a sling. Over-protective doctors, you know?"
Yato doesn't know, protective parents weren't on his life resume, but he nods numbly anyway. "Thanks for that."
"I did what anyone would have done." She answers honestly, and Yato isn't sure if it's naivety or optimism behind her assumption.
He averts his eyes. "No, I don't think anyone else would have done that."
She opens her mouth the respond, but Kofuku bursts back in before she can get a word in edgewise. She has the slice of white cake in hand, and she sets in on the counter with a flourish, wrapped neatly in a pink paper bag. Hiyori takes it gratefully, almost hesitating as she steals another glance at Yato's face. "I've got practices after school now, so I'll be late picking up this order from here on out. I'll make sure to get in before closing time, though."
Kofuku shoots her a brilliant smile. "Anytime is good, Hiyorin! I'll make sure to save you a slice for when you come in!"
"Ill see you tomorrow." She says to both of them, not just Kofuku, and Yato feels his ears burn. If she was coming after five from now on, she would be coming right in the middle of his night shift. Just his luck.
The door jingles again as she leaves, and Yato sets his chin in his hand again. Kofuku dances around to the other side of the counter, propping her arms up on the wood. "You know Hiyorin, Yatty?"
Yato pouts and turns his face away from her. A metallic shine by his elbow catches his eye, and he reaches out for it. It's a coin, a five yen coin, and he figures the girl must have left it after her wallet mishap. He runs his thumb against the smooth edge. "Yeah, I met her once."
"O~oh?" Kofuku invades his personal space again to question him further, and Yato leans back just a tad. "How'd you meet her?"
Shitty drivers. Bad luck. The act of a vengeful god. He can feel the concrete on his face, and her elbow in the small of his back. "She shoved me out of the way of a motorcycle."
Kofuku jerks so hard Yato narrowly avoids falling off the back of the register chair. "She did that?! For you?"
"Yeah."
"She doesn't even know you!" Kofuku exclaims. "You're just some random guy to her!"
Yato flinches. "Yeah."
She jumps excitedly, clasping her hands together. Her violet irises glitter, and Yato narrows his own eyes. Kofuku wasn't trustworthy when she got that look on her face. "And she's actually a regular at my diner, that you work at!" Yato doesn't follow her train of thought, and Kofuku leans forward to tap him smartly on the nose. "It must be fate then!"
Scoffing, Yato turns away, folding the five yen coin over in his palm.
.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.
He has a dream about Mizuchi that night.
She'd been expressionless and silent the night he'd left, watching him with eyes dark enough they looked black in the dim lighting of his bedroom. He didn't pack a lot- they traveled too much for him to keep much of anything, anyway- and she followed him to the door, light enough on her feet that she didn't have to avoid the loose floorboards to stay silent. (Yato had memorized the exact panels in the two months they'd taken up shop here; there was no use sneaking out if you didn't know what you were doing.)
He hesitates by the door, and she latches onto the insecurity. "Father will come looking, you know." She says quietly, (could she can be anything but quiet?) and Yato shrugs, shouldering his violin case further up onto his back.
"He won't find me, not unless you run and tell him I'm leaving." He wonders why she wasn't doing just that. It was obvious she didn't want him to leave, so why was she standing here seeing him off instead of stopping him? Yato eyes her from under his lashes. "Are you going to cry wolf the second I open this door?"
"If I was going to, I would have already." She replies easily. "He'll find you anyway, you do remember last time, don't you?"
He does remember last time, but he ignores the dread in his gut to fake nonchalance. "I won't get caught, then." Yato puts his hand on the door. The cold press of the steel against his palm grounds him, giving him just enough courage to turn the handle. It opens noiselessly, to his relief, and he huffs a breath into the cooling night air. Spring was a good time to run away, right? There hadn't really been a manual on this.
Yato pauses one last time at the bottom of the stairs, turning his face up to look at Mizuchi. She has her arms clasped behind her back, her pale, doll-like face twisted into a frown, and Yato suddenly feels the need to say something. A reassurance, maybe.
"It'll be fine." Is the only thing he can manage through his chapped, torn lips, and it feels weak. A weak excuse for a placation.
If his words mean anything to her, she doesn't show it. "You'll be back." She says it like a fact, not a question or an educated guess, but a bitter truth, and Yato's fingers twitch around the handle of his bag. She blinks at him, dark lashes fluttering over her cheeks. "We'll always be the only ones here for you."
The only ones. She looks too old for twelve years old, and he wonders what she might have been like if things had been different. Maybe it wouldn't have to end like this. He wonders if this is even the end.
Yato ignores the shaky waver in his voice, forcing himself to look more surefooted than he felt. "Thanks for everything, Hiiro."
He wakes up with his breath caught in his throat.
.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.
Yato decides on one more day at the bus station. Trudging the half mile in the cold was worth it, even if he just got a couple thousand yen for his troubles. It added up quickly; the coins and notes were certainly stacking up in the tupperware hidden in his cabinet.
He's not expecting someone to be sitting in his usual spot, but when he sees the olive green coat he's not surprised. The kid is sitting with his face turned away, and when Yato gets close, he jumps back like an abused dog. Yato sets down his case and puts his hands up in a retreat. "I'm surprised to see you here, kid. I figured you went off and found a life yesterday."
The kid (Yukine, he really needs to get a grip on that) narrows his eyes and huffs. "I just ran into a bit of trouble. By the time I finally got here, you were long gone."
Yato feels a smidgen of guilt; he hadn't left early, but if he'd waited a little longer he might have caught him. A closer inspection of the boy's face makes him notice the bruise on his left cheek, covered shoddily with concealer that's just a shade too tan. It's a good job if you weren't expecting someone to look closely at you, but Yato has always thought himself to be pretty perceptive.
"You get in a fight?" He asks, and Yukine freezes up.
"I-" He pauses uncertainly. "Yeah. A couple kids cornered me after school."
It's a lie, but Yato accepts it with grace. He wasn't the kid's father, he was some random, broke street musician he met by accident. Yato reaches down to unzip the front pocket of his violin case, pulling out the stack of method books. "I said I had shit to help, and I'm a man of my word."
Yato hands them out and notes the shaky hesitation Yukine's hands before he takes them. "You mean you don't want them anymore?"
"I don't need them." Yato answers simply. "I've done all the exercises in there so many times my hands hurt when I look at them. I just kept 'em out of sentimentality."
The kid makes a face down at them, and Yato thinks he's gonna cry for a moment before he lifts his head. "Thanks, I guess." He thumbs the stapled edges, stopping at the spiral notebook near the bottom. Yato watches him pull it out and flip it open, eyebrows furrowing at the contents.
"You're giving me your journal?"
"It was a practice log." Yato folds his arms and shifts his weight to his left leg. "You can learn a lot from what helps other people."
Yukine flips though another few pages before stopping at the half mark. "It ends halfway through, though."
Yato knows where it ends. It ended the day he got out, and it ended the night he slept on a bus terminal rest bench. He stopped writing his stupid practice logs when he stopped practicing and started playing for a living. "You can continue where I left off, start your own. Or you can toss it out, see if I care."
The kid doesn't bristle or frown, like Yato expects, but instead he tucks it carefully under his arm. "Why did you give me this?" He gestures to the stack of paper. "All of this."
Truth be told, Yato had no fucking clue. The memory of the girl, Hiyori, pushing him out of the street comes to the surface, and the nearly-healed bruises ache under his skin. Yato rubs the one on his elbow absentmindedly, looking at the floor. Karma was bullshit. She'd saved his ass by the skin of her teeth, and got nothing out of it but a dislocated shoulder and an awkward situation.
Giving some kid a couple of method books was different from shoving a guy out of the way of a moving vehicle. What shitty outcome could be worse than what she got for helping him?
Turning his mouth into a lopsided frown, Yato scuffs his heel against the pavement. "Consider it me paying forward a favor."